


Sleepy Lexicon

by OriginalImpossibleSouffleGirl



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake Marriage, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I will see you in Hell Metzner, It wil be a cold day in hell before I accept that bullshit finale as canon, Marriage of Convenience, Romance, Sex, There Is No Canon Only Zuul, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-28 11:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 25,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5088770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalImpossibleSouffleGirl/pseuds/OriginalImpossibleSouffleGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>Lygerastia</b> - the condition of one who is only amorous when the lights are out.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lygerastia

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of ficlets written to fill prompts from a writing meme on Tumblr. I just wanted these all in the same place. I'll get to my unfinished fics now these are done, lol.
> 
> Thanks for all the feedback, guys! I happen to have found a gigantic list of words so I decided to leave this open for more ficlets. Enjoy!

Their breaths are the only thing that puncture the air, whispered endearments and desperate moans.

She wishes conflicting things at once. Wants to see him, what she’s touching, see his face clearly when she does something he likes.

Oh, but this is good, too; working her way around his body in the dark, reading his desire with her fingers.

It makes her feel more wicked–to pinch him and swallow his yelp into herself, to run her fingers across his scar and make him gasp her name, to make him guess what she’ll do next. Whether to bite, or lick, or suck. 

She straddles him and she knows he can feel how wet she is now, imagines the look on his face that matches his lusty groan, and revels in the way his hands grip her hips tighter to pull her against him.

_That will leave a mark_ , she muses to herself and allows herself a delighted laugh.

He pulls her even closer and god, he’s so damn  _big._ no wonder he couldn’t handle skinny jeans. She takes his cue and grinds down on him hard, ripping another moan from him.

Rendering him nonverbal is easily her favorite thing about forging this new bond between them and she finds she doesn’t need lights for that.


	2. Apodyopis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Apodyopis** \- the act of mentally undressing someone._

Crane’s jaw drops when Abbie walks in in her Beyoncé costume. He’d thought he’d been inured to the immodest fashions of the 21st century, but he finds he was woefully mistaken when his eyes follow the line of her legs up to the tiny denim trousers, then continue up to her–he swallows hard.

He remembers having seen her in her brassiere when they’d battled Ro’kenhronteys, and the memory of her heaving bosom makes it difficult for him to look at it now, where it looks decidedly more inviting.

To think–a man who’d been surrounded by countless women in corsets for most of his life being rendered speechless by breasts barely covered by a simple flannel shirt.

By the time he makes it up to her impish smile and twinkling eyes, he is a man lost. His fingers twitch rapidly and he tries to clear his throat in order to tell her she looks–what? lovely? fetching? stunning? ravishing?

Mercy, but that look on her face makes it worse. His evil mind imagines her having that same look as it systematically strips her of the shirt, the brassiere underneath, the shorts… Lord, but the thought of the lieutenant naked beneath him, breathing his name–

“Ex–if you’ll pardon me,” he gets out before fleeing to the restroom with Miss Jenny’s laughter following him the whole way.


	3. Cheiloproclitic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Cheiloproclitic** \- being attracted to someones lips._

Ichabod Crane has a Problem.

Perhaps not an apocalyptic one, but certainly a significant one. A significant Problem called Abbie Mills, or, more specifically, Abbie Mills’ lips and the memory of an enchantment cast a fortnight past by a mischievous fae in which they were made to press against his own lips for a truly astonishing amount of time.

Now, whenever he was in the lieutenant’s presence, it was difficult to concentrate on anything she said because he was focused on how lush her lips had felt, how soft and perfect they were against his own.

He had not shared a meal with her for four days. 

He could barely concentrate on the video game they were playing together because of her penchant for eating lollipops whenever she played, and it was making him think things that would scandalize God himself.

“Yes!” she shouts as he somehow manages to save her from a sniper while imagining her mouth pressed against the scar on his chest.

“Great shot, Crane. God, I could  _kiss_  you,” she says, and turns to him, flushed with victory.

And a lovely, reckless impulse pushes him to ask, “why don’t you?”


	4. Gymnophoria, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Gymnophoria** \- the sensation that someone is mentally undressing you._

Abbie pretends she doesn’t notice. They  _are_ stalking skinwalkers, after all, and it’s more important to prevent another gruesome murder than to acknowledge that your partner is staring pretty fixedly at your ass.

She admits that she gets a thrill out of it. She rarely gets to dress up, so when they’d found out that these particular monsters use clubs as their hunting grounds she’d taken advantage and worn the tightest, shortest, reddest dress she owned.

The plan was, of course, to have one of the beasts target  _her_  rather than a civilian.

Problem was, it seemed the bait was working more on Crane than it was anyone–any _thing_ –else.

She inwardly smiles as she remembers the look on his face when he first saw her, as if he’d been given an electric shock. And oh god, his fingers had gone  _nuts_.

She had to admit, it gave her a feeling of smug satisfaction. 

But it’s kinda hard to focus on monster hunting when she can feel his eyes on her every other minute, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Makes her wonder how much heat Crane’s eyes can  _really_  hold…

A faint scream puts her back in cop mode, and she grabs Crane’s arm, ignoring the flip low in her stomach when he tenses.

“Looks like it’s showtime,” she says and rushes toward the sound.


	5. Sphallolalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Sphallolalia** \- flirtatious talk that leads nowhere._

Crane is trying to pretend he’s not listening to Abbie’s side of a phone conversation with Daniel Reynolds.

She giggles at something her colleague says and his fingers twitch over the book he’s “reading.” He tries to cover the reaction by turning the page he’s not read and clearing his throat.

Abbie glances at him but continues speaking into the phone, confirming what seem to be plans for a tryst before finally ending the call and turning back to her own book.

The silence stretches between them until Abbie says, “any luck?”

He raises his head and swallows the question he had on his own tongue.

“I fear not,” he replies, “for all my inadvertent knowledge of the supernatural, this particular beast seems to elude both memory and record.”

Abbie laughs, and the warmth he feels at the sound being his doing outweighs his frustration.

“Imagine that,  _finally_  a monster Ichabod ‘First Witness’ Crane  _hasn’t_ encountered with Betsy Ross in 17-whatever while having tea with Washington or something. We should celebrate this momentous occasion. I’m calling Jenny.”

Crane draws himself up in offended dignity.

“I do not  _always_  have all the answers, Lieutenant,” he says defensively.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she teases back, then affects a posture he assumes is to mirror his own, “why yes, Lef-tenant, this is obviously the work of the Loch Ness Monster, whom Betsy and I encountered while on the run from redcoats at Valley Forge.”

“The Loch Ness Monster is said to reside in _Scotland_ ,” he grouses, knowing that in doing so he’s only playing further into her amusement but loving, as always, her playfulness, “I do  _not_ sound like that, and that is the incorrect use of ‘whom.’”

Her smile widens and his heart constricts. By god, she was inordinately lovely when she smiled.

“Uh oh, he’s correcting my grammar now! Must’ve struck a nerve.”

“Clarity in communication is always a worthy endeavor. One should be sure that one says what one wishes to say with no confusion,” he replies quietly, and Abbie’s smile slowly fades as he sees her realize a deeper meaning he did not wish to convey but that has slithered in like a thief in the dead of night nonetheless.

“Yeah, I get that,” she says finally–sadly–and turns back to her book.


	6. Mamihlapinatapei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Mamihlapinatapei** \- the look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move._

Stakeouts sucked.

They were boring, and they sucked, and they were Jenny’s least favorite part of the whole relic hunter gig. But she had to admit that Joe’s company and obvious enthusiasm made it a bit better.

Of course, after 8.5 minutes of his leg jiggling against hers in nervousness the “enthusiasm” was getting a bit annoying. Well. Annoying if she didn’t think of how nice it felt to have his leg pressed against her in the first place.

_Whoa there, Mills_.

“So what’s up with Abbie and Crane?” Joe finally asks, and Jenny almost sighs in relief and gratitude at the distraction.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean…” his hands gesture vaguely in the air before he finally settles on a way to put it, “they ever gonna get it together?”

Jenny lets out a laugh, truly delighted at the idea of Crane and her sister finally realizing that they were in love and had been since Abbie had tracked down a literal Horseman of the Apocalypse to find a kidnapped Crane. Hell, maybe even before that.

“Come on, you know Abbie as well as I do. She look like the kind to admit to feeling for Crane? For _anyone_? And Crane making a move before the next century? Nah. The end of the world will come faster–do  _not_ say ‘that’s what she said,’” she says when she notices him smiling out of the corner of her eye.

His smile widens, but he keeps the joke inside.

“I think they’ll get there.” he shifts in his seat to face her more fully. “I mean, eventually they won’t be able to deny the obvious, right?”

Jenny scoffs.

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Wouldn’t you?” he asks quietly, and something in his voice makes her turn to him completely, meeting earnest eyes that seemed to be asking something completely different.

“Maybe I would,” she murmurs, holding his gaze.


	7. Olfactophilia (Osmolagnia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Olfactophilia** or **osmolagnia** \- sexual arousal by smells and odors emanating from the body, especially the sexual areas._

_It must be that time of the month,_  Abbie thinks.

How else can she explain how damn horny she is for Crane _now_ , when he’s all sweaty and gross, fresh from a bout of chopping firewood with Joe?

He sits down on the couch next to her for a minute, wanting to catch his breath before he heads upstairs to shower, and she discreetly presses her thighs together, suppressing a tiny moan.

“Are you all right, Lieutenant?” he asks, noting her discomfort.

The smell of chopped wood sits well on him, but it’s his own musk that’s driving her to distraction now, leading her to imagine wiry muscles flexing as he swings an axe in the sun, his grunts as the axe connects.

“Uh, yeah. Just tired,” she responds.

He accepts her lie and continues chattering to her about his afternoon with Joe, musing about “young Master Corbin’s fancy for Miss Jenny” while Abbie wonders if this is how he smells after hours of vigorous sex, if she could possibly convince him to satisfy her curiosity. For science.

“–And I advised him that perhaps the best course of action is to press his suit, as I would with you.”

Her fantasizing almost makes her miss when he turns to deliver that last with a direct gaze that almost makes her gasp.

“Sorry,  _what_?”


	8. Gymnophoria, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Gymnophoria** \- the sensation that someone is mentally undressing you._
> 
>  
> 
> The other side.

“Damn, Crane, you look  _good_ in a suit!”

Crane blushes at Jenny’s compliment, but his eyes remain on Abbie, who hasn’t spoken since he presented himself for inspection.

She’s slightly worrying her lower lip with her teeth as her eyes travel his entire person deliberately, from head to toe.

He tries not to think about what she’s imagining, or what he  _hopes_  she’s imagining.

“Master Corbin assured me this cut would flatter my frame,” he says.

“It does.”

He almost misses Abbie’s response, it’s so quiet. Considering, even.

He blushes harder.

The combination of her continued scrutiny, the way her yellow sundress hugs her figure, and her wicked tongue darting out to moisten her lips is slowly driving him to what seems very much like madness. His fingers twitch as he tries to discern what she’s thinking, what the slight raise of the eyebrow means.

“You okay there, Abbie?” Jenny’s amused voice partly saves him from having an embarrassing reaction.

“Huh?” Abbie shakes herself from a daze. 

“Yeah,” she responds with one last look at Crane, “yeah, Jenny, I’m just fine.”

Crane clears his throat as Jenny murmurs an “I bet” under her breath.

“Shall we?” he says, offering Abbie his arm, which she takes readily.

“I’m just gonna wait for Joe,” Jenny stays back, watching them walk into the small courtroom. “and then we can get you two married.”


	9. Basorexia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Basorexia** \- an overwhelming desire to kiss._

This is exactly what she was afraid would happen. 

_Why did I let them talk me into this?_ Abbie laments to herself.

She chances a glance at Crane, who is trying his level best to pretend nothing has changed.

He is moving around the living room, tidying up and chattering about the day, commenting on the differences in wedding ceremonies between his time and hers, and basically acting like it was anything other than their wedding night. Technically. _Fuck_.

“Crane,” she says, wanting him to just  _stop_ and sit or something.

He does stop and sit (which is a relief), but he sits right next to her (which is not).

“Apologies, Lieutenant. It seems I am a bit out of sorts.”

“Yeah, like the damn Energizer bunny,” she mutters, and off his puzzled look says, “never mind.”

She sighs and smooths her dress–her  _wedding_ dress–on her lap to give herself some time to get her thoughts completely in order.

“Look, Crane, with these–” she doesn’t want to say  _marriages_ so she settles on “ _situations_ , there’re certain expectations. From us. That the immigration people have.”

He shifts, and his leg brushes against hers, causing her dress to hike up a little. She ignores how that makes her heart race.

“You’re saying we are meant to consummate this marriage, I take it?” he asks.

Abbie’s face flames and she raises startled eyes to his.

“ _What?_  No! I just mean that they have to believe we’re really married. Which means… affection. Sharing beds. That kind of thing. They check,” she finishes weakly.

His brow furrows.

“I don’t understand, Miss Mills. How does any of that preclude consummation?”

“Well, we don’t actually have to do it. They just have to believe we do.”

He frowns and shifts again; her dress rides up even higher. 

“And what if,” he begins, reaching out to put his hand on her leg and oh, god, have his fingers  _always_ been so long?

“What  _if_ , Lieutenant,” his hand moves higher, leaving a trail of heat on her thigh, “I want nothing more than to consummate this marriage?”

She swallows hard and holds his gaze, which is steady and hot and questioning. 

His hand slips under her dress and all the way up to her hip, and his eyes drop to her lips when her tongue darts out to moisten them.

“What if I’ve been doing nothing all day but imagining what bliss your kiss holds, Abbie?”

She swallows a moan as his hand tightens on her hip.

“You were nervous. You barely looked at me,” she whispers as he leans in, a hairsbreadth from claiming that kiss.

“At first I could not discern if you felt the same way,” he brushes his lips so lightly over hers she thinks she imagined it, “but now I hold no such reservation.”

“Oh, yeah?” she brings her arms up and drapes them on his shoulders, fingers playing with his hair. “And how did you figure me out?”

He chuckles softly.

“Oh, Abbie. You have always been my favorite and most easily solved Vigenère cipher,” he says before finally capturing her lips in a searing kiss.


	10. Augenblick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Augenblick** \- literally translated to “in the blink of an eye”, describes a "decisive moment" in time that is both fleeting yet momentously eventful, even epoch-makingly significant._

Crane feels Joe's expectant gaze on him, but can't bring himself to meet it. Instead, he regards the Lieutenant, who is diligently working to save her sister. He can see by the set of her shoulders how she worries, by the twist of her lip how she doubts their success.

She is without doubt the bravest, most resilient, most  _beautiful_ woman he's ever encountered in his short, interrupted life, and she had no  _inkling_.

He huffs softly.

The most difficult task put to him by Destiny has been guarding his heart from this diminutive Lieutenant, and he finds himself not minding his failure.

Disguising it, yes.

Avoiding it, most definitely.

But in his secret heart, he treasures it. The Rule he most cherishes breaking. To love Abbie. To count his hours 'til he sees her and to guard the moments spent together jealously.

If only he could discern if she felt the same.

He lowers his eyes to the book in front of him, feeling the strain of keeping his hands--his heart--still. There are many things he must atone for still, many apologies to make.

To prove to her that his recent absence was a mistake never to be repeated, that his place will always be by her side. That death would not find her so long as he drew breath.

And in this moment, even when their focus is on Miss Jenny and whatever fresh danger has come about by way of Pandora, Crane resolves to spend the rest of his life being an instrument of that unspoken promise.


	11. Drapetomania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Drapetomania** \- an overwhelming urge to run away._

_This isn't happening._

He's looking at her intently and she can feel the crushing weight of expectation, the sincerity, the damn  _adoration_ in his eyes pressing down on her. She squeezes her eyes shut, but the question follows her.

_Lef-tenant, would you--could you--see this bond as more than duty?_

What the fuck is  _that_ supposed to mean? He knew--he  _knows_ \--that there is an understanding between them. That she keeps her life in neat boxes she can keep track of. That one's "family." The one over here's "career." That one over there is "Witness."

This one is "Crane."

The trouble being that he was so impossible he needed a damn box of his own in the first place.

Maybe that should've been the first sign. The first flare in the night sky. Neon letters on a wall spelling "Danger."

She remembers a line from Pocahontas and it makes her want to giggle.

_These white men are dangerous._

Isn't that always the truth?

She knows it's partly because Joey had the courage to come clean with Jenny, knows that Crane probably did the matchmaking thing there. 

And now he wants to know if she has the same courage. The same inclination.

She opens her eyes, and for a moment, she can see herself saying "yes," plunging ahead like Joe, or Crane himself, consequences be damned.

But he left her once.

And the boxes are on the verge of falling.

And the words that come out of her are an  _I love you, too_ but they come out "I can't," and she has to go before she can see his heart break.


	12. Groke, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Groke** \- to gaze at someone while they’re eating in the hope that they’ll give you some of their food._

"You hungry or something, Joe?"

Jenny's amused voice makes him start guiltily. He's been caught, and he knows it. 

He clears his throat, turns his attention back to the book he's supposed to be inspecting for any mention of dreamwalkers. Not that he'll be able to ignore how good that damn cheeseburger smells.

"Nah, I'm fine."

He can practically hear her smile get wider.

"You sure? You were looking pretty hard at my burger."

He tries to ignore her.

"It tastes amazing, by the way," she teases. "I think they put A1 or something on it. Or--no, it's something else. Kinda spicy. And it's  _so_ juicy."

Joe turns the page, trying to hide his stomach's angry growl.

"They toasted the bun, too."

Joe clears his throat loudly.

"And you know, I usually get it medium rare, but you told me once that you preferred medium well so I thought I'd try it, and you know, you're absolutely right. This is  _divin_ \--Joe!"

He runs, taking a bite of the stolen burger on the way out of the trailer.

"You're right," he shouts back at a determined Jenny in pursuit, "it _is_ divine!"  


	13. Unsaid, or Caraphernalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Caraphernalia** \- a broken-heart disease whenever someone abandons you but leaves all their things behind, inducing painful memories. _

It’s never occurred to him just how much space Abbie takes despite her diminutive stature until he walks into the house that night and the silence echoes around him, compounding her loss. 

He’s been in the house alone before, of course, countless times. Minutes after hearing the front door close, the Lieutenant off to a day at work as he lingers in the kitchen with a cup of coffee she’s brewed. In twilight hours before she’s due home, looking through ancient texts, or studying for the blasted immigration exam, or working out stress with “online gaming.”

But her absence in those instances was temporary, the air held the promise of her return, and his senses were ever-attuned to the sound of her automobile pulling into the garage, her footsteps on the porch.

His heart gives a painful thud now as he sees the newspaper she discarded this morning still lying on the coffee table, the print slightly smudged by her fingertips. He leans down to touch the smudge and laments that it doesn’t assuage his pain. Or his grief. His regret.

He’s always believed himself a man of precise words. Prided himself on making himself understood, and especially to  _her._

He moves slowly through the house, marking the places touched by his Lieutenant–a spot of gun oil on the dining table she’s forgotten to wipe off; a basket of t-shirts and brassieres tangled in the laundry basket–and thinks back on all of the things he’s said to her, the ways he’s tried to affirm her importance to him.

He makes his way upstairs and stands at the doorway to her room, studying the neatly made bed and the nightstand. She’s left a bottle of lotion, a glass of half-drunk water and a gently-used paperback there. A thriller. He crosses the room and takes the book but doesn’t open it, choosing instead to sit on her bed and hold it, with a tiny corner of his brain desperately trying to convince him that things were as they always were--that she was due home any minute, and perhaps they could have Thai food for dinner this time since last night the Chinese food she’d brought home didn’t agree with her and they’d had to make a late night excursion to a convenience store to procure antacids.

He considers that excursion one of his admissions.

Also the way he’d pulled a blanket over her when she’d fallen asleep on the couch watching one of his war documentaries.

And every time he’d referred to her by her Christian name, even if only in his thoughts.

_Abbie._

Every reaffirmation of their bond an admission, too.

Fate, destiny, duty, bond… all substitutes for his true feeling, but admissions all the same.

Lieutenant, Miss Mills, Abbie, friend, family… Love. Soulmate.

He lies down there in the same place where she slept, clutching the book to himself as if it were her substitute, and he knows his “admissions” are nothing but dance steps. They are dodges, and cowardly ones considering all the ways in which he’s failed her. And now there is one more failure.

_Oh, Abbie._

He curls in on himself and brands himself a bloody fool.  He loves her, of course he does–has always done. Even when it was forbidden, even as he journeyed so far away from her. A love so all-consuming and true that it grew even as it swallowed him whole, as he pantomimed an inferior romance for her sake.

He breathes in her scent still on her pillow as a tear finally slips free.

“I love you, Abbie,” he whispers, and wishes that she were here to hear him say the words.


	14. Agastopia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Agastopia** \- admiration of a particular part of someone's body._

She looks over as he pulls the required books from the shelves. His increasing familiarity with the archives has given him an unerring accuracy when it came to finding what they needed.

She likes that. It's in those instances--when he feels like he's being useful--that he reminds her most of Captain Crane circa 1781, he of the steady gaze and even steadier fingers. She realizes she's biting her lip lightly seconds before he glances at her and hurriedly lets go, but her mind is still on the improbable fantasy she'd had in the carriage. 

Of Crane-- _Captain_ Crane--following through on the challenge and heat his eyes promised, of long pale fingers on dark, silky skin.

She clears her throat and re-focuses on what he's telling her.

 

* * *

 

 

Teaching him about Sunday dinner is fun until she bids him knead the dough for the biscuits.

His hands manipulate the dough obscenely, and in trying to pointedly focus on her own task--chopping the vegetables for the roast--she ends up nearly taking her own finger off.

It's worse when he immediately stops kneading, anxiously reaching for her at her pained cry.

He tuts over her and catches her injured hand and the gentleness of his touch eases some of the hurt.

 

* * *

 

 

She stands by him as he looks at the gravestone and remembers.

He'd avoided coming here for almost a year, and she understands why now.

He clenches and unclenches his fingers, waves of anger and pain and grief rolling off him.

His hand searches for hers and she offers it, hiding her wince when he takes hold and grips almost desperately. Instead, she squeezes reassuringly and breathes easier when after a minute, he moves to intertwine their fingers.

 

* * *

 

He hates it when she cries. But then he also hates when she tries _not_ to cry. She sighs in frustration and meets his eyes when he guides her chin up with a gentle but firm hand.

She hates to lose. She got enough of that shit as a messed-up kid, and she figures she's due more wins than losses now that she supposedly has God on her side. God and Crane.

She thinks he knows they're not tears of sadness he wipes away, and sometimes she wishes she could be more vulnerable for him.

But he softly caresses her cheek and she knows he doesn't care whether she's warrior or woman right now.

 

* * *

 

She gasps as his fingers slowly thrust into her. His thumb plays with her clit and she feels like crying his name so she does, and begs him for more. 

His voice rumbles against her thigh, telling her how beautiful she is, how he's longed for her. 

His fingers work faster as her body tightens around him and he tells her he loves her.

She reaches down to grip his wrist as she cums and her shout drowns out his elated laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

She's never gotten used to seeing him on his knees outside of the bedroom. And she's  _never_ had the chance to see him on his knees for _this_ specific reason.

Her heart pounds as he slides the simple ring on her finger, looking way too much like a puppy hopeful to get adopted.

She doesn't hear any of the proclamations he's nervously making, instead staring at his hand still holding hers right underneath the ring. She notices that while his voice wavers, his hands are as steady as she's ever seen them.

He's sure of this.

Her heart pounds too loudly for her to try to give him a verbal answer so instead she raises their joined hands and kisses his, kisses the ring.

He pulls her into a joyous and embrace and she thinks she's never been happier.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanna thank you all again for reading and kudosing and commenting. Y'all are the best!


	15. Redamancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Redamancy** \- the act of loving the one who loves you. _

“How come I’m the one who hasn’t eaten in ten months and you’re the one who looks it?” Abbie says as she eats a golden french fry.

Crane smiles softly, glad that she’s well enough to joke about her ordeal, but ever-mindful that she’d gone through so much without him.

“It seems, Lieutenant, that without your home cooking, I am utterly lost.”

“Just my home cooking, huh?”

Her half-smile makes his heart squeeze, and not for the first time he reaches across to catch her hand in his.

“I wouldn’t quite say that,” he says quietly, almost too quietly.

 

* * *

 

She makes no mention of the debris his search for her has left in their home. She walks slowly through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, cataloguing everything as if it were the first she’s seen of them.

She notes the picture of herself, prominent among piles of documents and maps.

“I get it,” she says lightly, turning back to him.

His fingers twitch.

“Rock chess, remember?” she jokes, then heads upstairs to the shower.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, she silently steals into his room and climbs into bed beside him, wordlessly pulling his arm around her waist before drifting off to sleep.

He mouths the words he’s wanted to tell her since her return to him, pulls her even closer, then follows her into slumber.

 

* * *

 

She is awake before him every day for weeks, singing along with the songs on her phone as she makes elaborate breakfasts.

“Morning, Crane,” she says brightly, always hyper-aware of his presence.

Every day for weeks he wishes to broach the topic of their sleeping together, but every day for weeks her eyes warn--no, beg--him not to. So he doesn’t, and instead stands beside her, willing to lend her aid.

She softly brushes his arm (in gratitude?) before turning back to the stove and resuming her singing.

Every day for weeks.

* * *

 

He wonders if he should worry about the time she spends asleep. Whenever there is nothing to occupy them, she sleeps, often drifting off in the middle of conversations or during their Netflix nights.

He reminds himself that she’s lacking nearly a year’s rest and smiles fondly and sadly.

If all her sojourn in the Catacombs has inculcated within her is an interminable need for sleep, food, and touch, then he figures it could be worse. He kisses the palm of her hand when she murmurs in her sleep, then shifts on the couch, trying to get comfortable.

She draws nearer to him, her body scrunched against him, and he stills.

He’ll stay all night if he has to.

 

* * *

 

They lie in his bed, months later, fingers idly intertwining as they wait for sleep.

“Crane?” she whispers.

He pauses between breaths; this is the first time she’s spoken to him when they’re like this.

“Lieutenant?”

It is her turn to pause, and he senses her resolve gathering around her like a cloak.

“Do you love me?”

He thought that he’d hesitate, that he’d stammer, that he’d make a clumsy joke and deflect her attention to something else, but in the end the truth escapes him almost unbidden.

“In the entirety of my two lifetimes I have never loved anyone or anything more,” he whispers fervently.

She hums, and his stuttered heartbeat almost misses the pleasure in her voice when she says “good” before reaching up to kiss him.


	16. Pluviophile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Pluviophile** \- someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mirror image to Redamancy.

She stands under the shower spray for what feels like hours. Every minute washes away another day in that place until she can almost begin to feel like “Abbie” again.

When she’s done she spends some time looking at herself in the mirror above the sink.

She’s surprised when she realizes that her face hasn’t changed much at all.

 

* * *

 

She walks into her room she notices her bed is unmade and a wave of relief washes over her at the thought that she won’t have to sleep alone.

But when he comes upstairs he heads straight to his room, pausing only to murmur a “good night, Lieutenant” through the door.

She sighs.

She slips between sheets that still smell of him (pine and wood and leather and _Crane_ ) and imagines she can feel the warmth of him.

It helps, for a while. And then it doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

She has a craving for cornbread one day, so she makes three pans of it.

Crane loves it, praises her for it, and together, they eat all of it.

She doesn’t tell him that she still feels hungry afterwards.

 

* * *

 

She hears all the words he wants to say but doesn’t; can feel the looks he gives her when he thinks she’s not looking.

As if she could ever be unaware of him.

She thanks him by using him as a touchstone.

 

* * *

 

There are nightmares.

She is alone, and the past few weeks have been a hallucination. Crane never came, Pandora never offered, the well was just a well.

She cries and flails until she realizes she’s not beating her fists against rock, but something warm and yielding.

Something that whispers reassurances.

Something that calls her “my brave one, my heart,” and promises never to leave her again.

She burrows into him and cries herself back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

“So how did the test go?” she asks, one day.

She’s a bit irritated with herself that she hasn’t ever thought of what he could’ve been doing in addition to looking for her.

He clears his throat, fingers twitching.

“I... have not seen Miss Corinth in some time,” he responds.

He meets her eye.

“There were other matters I deemed preeminent.”

She expects more, but that is the last he says of it. 

 

* * *

 

He comes out to stand with her in the rain.

She lets him hold her hand, tightening it around his when he glances at her.

“It didn’t rain there,” she says.

 

* * *

 

“I love you, too,” she blurts out of the blue, when they’re in the Archives.

He’s surrounded by books, brow furrowed in concentration, but her admission earns her his complete attention.

He doesn’t speak or move toward her and she thinks that maybe she’s fucked it up somehow.

“It’s just... I realized I’ve never said it before, and I... wanted you to know,” she adds tentatively.

She shifts nervously when he still makes no move toward her.

“I need a reaction here, Crane.”

He stands slowly, then walks until he’s in front of her, looking deep in her nervous eyes.

“Say it again,” he commands softly.

“I love you?”

“Again, please, Lieutenant.”

“I love you, Ichabod Crane,” she repeats, and is rewarded with a kiss.


	17. Cafuné

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Cafuné** \- the act of tenderly running one’s fingers through someone’s hair. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more drop in the fix-it fic bucket. Motherfuck it.

He finds it hard to look at her directly, half-convinced she's not the Lieutenant at all.

Despite her penchant for self-sacrifice, this sad resignation, this sad ushering of him--it hung on her like a badly-tailored suit. His wounded anger, when it comes, is both sudden and not.

"Rot."

She raises her head from where it rests against his shoulder.

"Excuse me?"

Ah, there she is; the tone that subtly advises him to change course if he knows what's good for him. He _doesn't_ know what's good for him. Not if it involves losing her.

"Complete and utter rot," he repeats, watching as she shifts away from him to cross her arms over her chest. His Abbie. Finally.

"There any more to that thought, Crane?"

"The very notion that I could--that I _would_ leave you here in this--this  _place._ That your worth lies not in what you've done for the world, how you've sacrificed--Oh, Abbie. Have I failed you so deeply?"

Her brow furrows.

"Crane--"

"I do not accept this. You are not my--my servant. My _nanny_. And your work is not yet done, Lieutenant. _We_ ," he stresses the word almost to the point of breaking, "have much still to accomplish."

He watches intently as she sighs, clearly preparing to smooth over his anger. He expects her to unfurl her arms, for her small hand to pat his chest affectionately, for a small indulgent smile. She does none of it.

"I'm sorry, Crane. I really am. I guess the wires got crossed and I got the wrong marching orders."

She shrugs again, maddeningly resigned to this damnable situation.

"All I know," she continues, "is that I'm done. _Finis_. Kind of a relief, actually."

"No."

"Crane, please. Don't make this harder."

He pauses at that, loath to hurt her, as always. But then he remembers what she's asking of him. He takes her hand, carefully unfolding an arm. He studies it; such a tiny thing against his big hand, but solid. So solid and warm that it makes it easier for him to forget that she technically doesn't exist anymore, if her reasoning is to be believed. He folds his long fingers around it, and hope flutters again when she moves to intertwine their fingers instead.

He raises their joined hands to his lips, dropping a soft kiss on hers.

"My, my," she teases. "Be still my heart."

"You are certain this is your wish? To stay?" he asks softly.

Her smile turns a little melancholy.

"Yeah. Don't think I have much of a choice, anyway."

He nods to himself, a decision made.

"Then I will remain here with you."

"What? No. You--"

"Do whatever you do, remember? I may not have acted when it mattered, but I can certainly rectify that mistake now. If you will not return with me, then I will remain with you."

"Crane--" she pulls her hand from his and stands, pacing in front of him and shaking her head.

He watches patiently. He has all the time in the world.

"Crane," she repeats, coming to a stop before him, "the world needs you. You've gotta go."

He smiles ruefully, and reaches up to brush her cheek.

"The world needs the Witnesses," he corrects, "and if you are so easily replaceable, then surely I am doubly so."

She sighs, reaching up to thread her fingers in his hair. She smiles when he briefly closes his eyes in pleasure, looking for all the world like a puppy getting scratched behind the ears.

"You are the most stubborn man I have ever met, Captain Crane," she murmurs.

He meets her eyes, lips quirking up in an incorrigible smirk.

"I merely endeavor to be as steadfast in duty as you, Lieutenant."

"Uh huh." 

His smile gets wider at her skepticism, then fades a little as he looks directly into her fond eyes.

"There is nothing for me in a world without you, Grace Abigail Mills. Do not ask me to return to one."

It's her turn to smile mischievously, and as he marvels at how lovely she is, she takes the opportunity to surprise him with kiss. Soft and tender and horribly overdue. He melts into her, filing the feeling away in his memory, still irrationally afraid she can be taken from him without a trace. Her hand tightens slightly in his hair and when he leans into the touch, she breaks the kiss, resting her forehead against his.

"Been meaning to do that," she says breathlessly.

"Abbie." 

His voice is low and serious, heavy with feeling. She leans back and meets his gaze, expectant.

"I love you."

He'd often wondered how he would say the words. Practiced sometimes when she was at work, or running errands. The chairs in the kitchen had been excellent proxies, if a little sparse with constructive criticism. He'd always imagined he'd tell her with long flourishes; poetry, perhaps. Long monologues on her beauty, her spirit, her incandescence. 

And in the end, it was just this. Three simple words, unvarnished and unadorned. It suits her, he knows now, as she smiles widely and happily.

"I had an inkling," she says, and he wants to laugh loudly with joy.

"What gave me away?"

"Well...staying in an afterlife and possibly dooming the world for me is kind of a big hint."

He captures her lips in a kiss again, and this time he doesn't hold back, eager to have her know the depth of his feeling for her.

"Wow," is all she says, then swats his arm when he begins to preen under such perfect praise. "Don't get a big head."

He stands, grabbing her hand and leading her to the door of their home.

"Tell me, Lieutenant," he pauses to look back at her, "what happens now?"

She shrugs.

"I guess we wing it."

He turns the doorknob when her voice stops him again.

"Crane. I love you, too."

He brings her hand to his lips and kisses it again, then opens the door.


	18. Antephialtic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Antephialtic** \- that which prevents or is a remedy for nightmares._

Abbie stands at his bedroom door and watches as he thrashes against the sheets.

He has this nightmare often--imagining her going into Pandora's tree over and over. He hasn't told her this, but his shouts of "lieutenant, no!" are a pretty big giveaway. They've both pretended they're okay in daylight hours, so he never mentions his dreams and she never mentions that she stands at his door on those nights until the thrashing gets too violent.

That's when she gingerly sits on his bed and lays her small hand across his forehead until he quiets, the only sound in the room that of his panting. It's early summer so he doesn't wear a nightshirt and instead wears only his weird long underwear pants to bed.

She doesn't tell him that they're a lot more see-through than he thinks. She's not even supposed to be in his room.

She doesn't intend for him to find out, anyway.

Abbie watches as Crane's hands grip the sheets, evidence that he's still in that two-minute loop; watching her turn at his shout, her telling him to take care of Jenny and Joe, her disappearing into the tree for ten--no, for him it was less.

She snorts softly. 

True to form, Crane's worst nightmare is the loss part. Not the interminable days after, no--it was the act of losing. Watching something slip through your fingers.

Granted, he  _had_ lost quite a bit even before this. And she  _was_ technically his only tie to this world, to a purpose... Perhaps it is best that his fear is so definite, so discrete. God knows her own amorphous fears are too damn hard to fight.

He doesn't relax his grip until she covers one of his hands with hers and softly sings the first thing that comes to mind, a Norah Jones song he likes.

She doesn't leave until the first grey rays of the sun start to break through the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Crane stands outside her bedroom door debating whether to enter. The Lieutenant has obviously kept her bad dreams from him for a reason and he is loath to invade her privacy this way, but her harsh sobs are breaking his heart.

At a particularly loud cry, his mind is made up and he gently opens the door, taking care not to startle her awake.

It is the height of impropriety to be here, now, at this hour, and with the night clothes she seems to favor--cotton trousers so short he is not entirely convinced they are not in fact underclothes, and a thin  _tank top_ that leaves even less to the imagination.

He pushes such thoughts out of his head and kneels by the bed next to Abbie.

He raises a tentative hand to brush her cheek briefly, then moves to calm one of hers, which is frantically scratching at the bed.

She is dreaming of the Catacombs, then. She'd told him of scratching a map onto stone; of sand pouring behind her as she tried to orient herself for days, weeks... Months. With no one to talk to save a phantom of him she'd conjured.

Her hand stills at his touch, but her murmurings continue, too low for him to hear.

He leans forward and catches "it works, somehow it works."

"Indeed it does, Lieutenant," he whispers, and drops a light kiss on her forehead.

At his voice, she finally calms completely.

"Crane," she breathes and settles further into sleep.

"I'm here, Abbie," he assures. "I'll always be here."

 

* * *

 

"Stay," she says, and he does.

She hovers uncertainly on the threshold of the home they share. It all seems different somehow--not distorted, but....off. As if she's viewing everything from the wrong side of a mirror.

On the other side of the mirror, Pandora lies defeated; Jenny and Joe have gone home to affirm their survival in ways she really doesn't want to think about; Sophie and Danny share a silent drink in a bar; Her father waits for the call she promised him.

The end of the Second Tribulation.

The closing paragraph of a chapter.

On this side of the mirror, she stands at the threshold of her home and fears the nightmares to come.

"Stay," she repeats, and Crane moves to stand behind her, dropping a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I'm here, Abbie," he says.

She glances back to catch his smile, the resolve and promise in his eyes.

"I'll always be here."

 


	19. Mirabilia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Mirabilia** \- marvels; miracles._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy #IchabbieWeekend, y'all!
> 
> Please excuse any canon inaccuracies--wait, what am I saying?? _Fuck_ canon! Anyway, thanks for reading and kudosing and commenting. Y'all are _way_ better people than the PTB (not that that's a very high bar, but still).

Ichabod Crane's life has, of late, become something of a nightmare.

Recent discoveries and misadventures have resulted in his being detained for several hours in the constabulary and accused of crimes committed by an unholy creature he cannot hope to explain adequately--and afforded him the certainty that even if he could, the chances of his being believed would be nil. Worst of all, he is a stranger in a time so foreign it may as well be a different country, if not a different planet.

He is well and truly buggered, and that crystalline realization is accompanied by a significant lowering of spirit.

His wife is dead, as is his best friend; nothing remains of what he knew, and the only ray of hope--the only shining light he can see--is Grace Abigail Mills.

He watches as she stands shoulder to shoulder with her colleagues and marvels at how she can condense such powerful grief into a solitary tear. 

Crane knows that Sheriff Corbin had been her partner, but looking at her now, he wonders at the depth of the relationship between them. She is beautiful and strong, but he can see in her a fragility that calls to him even as he watches her school her features into a stoic mask. Her lip trembles and it's almost too much for him to bear.

She will be-- _had been_ \--his salvation, and he wants nothing more than to afford her the same courtesy.

The thought disconcerts him, and he turns in the direction of Katrina's grave. 

It seems a day for saying goodbye.

 

* * *

 

He likes sweets.

She doesn't know why that should delight her so, but it does. If even half the shit he says is true, then the guy could use a donut hole. Or three--nope, four.

She smiles when the fifth one leaves a dusting of powdered sugar on his lips and tries to ignore the weird feeling of gratitude that grips her heart gently at the thought that this tall, cranky white dude showed up just when her world was in danger of falling apart.

Her smile wobbles a bit when she remembers Corbin and the last joke he told her before--well, _before._

It surprises her that Crane catches the change even though it is brief. 

"All right, lieutenant?" he asks gently. 

She pats his arm reassuringly in lieu of an answer and accepts the last donut hole.

"You got something," she says, gesturing with her free hand at Crane's mouth.

He takes the hint and licks his lips clean, flushing a little in embarrassment.

"Happens to the best of us." She grins and wonders how he feels about apple pie à la mode.

 

* * *

 

He wonders when it was he first thought of kissing the lieutenant. 

He's always been aware of her charms, of course--a man would have to be blind--but he's become more and more aware that his feelings are graduating from a detached sort of appreciation to a hotter, hungrier kind. A possessive kind. 

He notes the graceful curve of her neck as she bends over a book, searching for her nightmare monster. 

At times, she is breathtaking. He wants to kiss her thoroughly and return that particular favor. 

But he finds he can't quite pinpoint when or why his feelings toward her became so... ardent. 

Perhaps it is the way she allows him to see her at her most vulnerable; The way her smile turns mischievous when she teases him with some confoundingly modern turn of phrase; Her honesty; The way she challenges him; The way she fills out her trousers.

He shifts in his seat, silently chiding himself.

"What're you thinking, Crane?"

_I want you._

He clears his throat to drown out his inappropriate thought.

"Perhaps we are looking in the wrong place," he answers.

 

* * *

 

It's not until he gently rubs his thumb across her knuckles that Abbie knows that she can't do this without him.

Not just the Apocalypse shit, but _everything_. Dealing with Jenny. Dealing with the loss of Corbin. And Andy... Hell, even Luke. He tries to explain oh-so-logically how his death makes all the sense in the world and all she can think is  _I can't lose you._

Calling her by her first name is such a low blow it dumbfounds her, and she would be angry but she's too scared.

She looks at their joined hands, at his long fingers enfolding hers, and she's a little surprised that his hand is still so warm. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend they're in the Archives and that this is just a normal day--well, not _normal_ if he's holding her hand so tenderly. This is too intimate for their normal dynamic, and it is this realization that jolts her back to the reality of the moment.

He's dying. He's leaving. He's leaving her. And he's doing it willingly.

She tamps down the hurt and thinks, instead, how she can take a page from his book and do the exact opposite of what he wants her to do.

Maybe the blood bond will still kill the Horseman if she administers CPR after Crane's unconscious.

Maybe there's an antidote.

Maybe _she_ can perform the stupid sin eating thing.

His grip falters and she sees his eyes flutter closed and this is it, this is the last best fuck you the universe can give her unless it decides to take Jenny from her again and she laughs a little hysterically at the way her thoughts are turning and then Henry is there and he saves Crane and a full-body shudder runs through her as she realizes that he's still here.

She looks at him, his skin all clammy and his eyes dazed.

_Dick._

_Asshole._

_Son of a bitch._

_Thank god._

"There is  _always_ another way," she says and burrows into his waiting arms.

 

* * *

 

 _Apocalypse, from the Greek, meaning "uncovering, revelation,"_ Crane thinks as he quaffs a third helping of the delicious rum Abbie has brought. He's had quite enough of bleeding  _revelations._

Except... Abbie's smile is quite a pleasant one, as is the knowledge that their paths have been meant to cross even from the start.

And--of course--there is the one in which he realizes he's taken to thinking of her as "Abbie," even as he maintains the proper deference when referring to her aloud. Yes, the delectable Abbie Mills is one of the better revelations he's had since awakening in this blasted century. All others have merely served to drive him to a fourth glass of the rum.

His wife, a witch. Trapped in Purgatory. He is a Witness to the End of Times and has been groomed as such by nearly everyone in his previous life. And he'd had a son.

The drink burns a path down his throat and chest. He wishes he could swallow these discoveries as easily.

Abbie, for her part, is doing her adorable damnedest to cheer him up, and if it weren't for his stubbornness, she'd succeed much sooner, and with ease.

He smiles half-heartedly at one of her Corbin anecdotes, then reaches forward to catch her when she wobbles and almost slips out of her chair. The feel of her silky skin sends a not-unwelcome frisson through him. 

_So lovely._

The rum is gone too quickly--why is the rum  _always_ gone?!--and they reluctantly gather their things, intending on hailing a taxi to ferry them home.

"We'll swing by the liquor store," Abbie is saying. "Get another bottle."

"I think I wanna see you properly drunk," she adds with an impish smile.

He chuckles, letting the spring of affection for her flow freely. It washes away any remaining ill-humor.

"I fear, lieutenant, that you shall be soused well before me."

"Wanna bet?" she challenges, preceding him out the door.

 _Absolutely_ , he thinks, allowing himself a small glance at her posterior as he follows.

 

* * *

 

"It's my turn, Ichabod," Abbie says. She almost believes it, too, but the look in his eyes is so pained that she wants to take it back. 

Almost. 

Truth be told, she's a little surprised Crane's so resistant to leaving her behind. He'd redrawn that fucking map, after all, and yeah, okay, it isn't cool to let someone be trapped in a nightmare dimension--especially when one is married to that certain shady-ass someone--but it still stung. 

And now here he is acting as if she's ripping the still-beating heart from his chest.

She isn't sure she's not doing exactly that. It kinda feels like she's ripping her own out, too. 

She wants to kiss him.

She hugs him instead. God, he holds her so tight she thinks he'll break her and then he whispers fervently that he'll come back for her and that actually does break her. Just a little. Enough to let the tears well up in her eyes.

 _You fucking better_ , she thinks.

She feels a little better when he can't stop looking back at her even when the doorway opens, and it's enough to resist the impulse to push past Katrina and go back with him after all.

She thinks that he mouths something back at her but she can't make it out through her tears. 

She watches as they go through and even a few long minutes after the doorway has disappeared.

"I love you," a voice whispers, and she can't tell if it's hers or his.

 

* * *

 

 

Crane remembers every second of that lost year. Remembers losing Miss Jenny, and Katrina. Remembers picking up the pieces of Abbie's shattered life even as she tried to do the same for him. Remembers recovering, little by little, the will to push forward. Remembers becoming more than partners, fellow Witnesses, colleagues.

When Abbie summons him to Purgatory, he cannot help but embrace her with all the fervor he no longer feels he has to hold back. There is no longer any need to pretend she is not his anchor, his world.

She looks up at him with wet eyes through her lashes, trying to convince him to leave her behind, and he refuses to even entertain the possibility.

"Hold fast, Abigail Mills," he says seriously, then seals his vow with an unbearably tender kiss that rapidly turns passionate.

He's surprised her, he knows, but she reciprocates so unreservedly that his heart leaps in his chest. She remembers too.

It is much later--when the day finally allows them respite and Abbie is safely slumbering in his arms--that Crane lets himself breathe easy.

There remain dangers to face... Katrina to save... Countless other battles to fight, yet he can only think how very fortunate he is.

Abbie shifts, murmuring in her sleep, and he smiles, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Motorized conveyances that run at speeds faster than any horse. Instantaneous long-distance communication. Self-flushing commodes. Starbucks. Donut holes.

And the best, most wondrous miracle of all loves him back.

 


	20. Billet-doux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Billet-doux** \- a love letter._

Dearest Lieutenant,

 

At the risk of being, as Miss Jenny would say, "a sappy mofo," I would like to take full advantage of the occasion of Saint Valentine's Day to attempt to fully express my ardent love for you.

As by now you are aware, I have planned and placed many small tokens and demonstrations of affection around our home, but if you will allow me what is perhaps yet another quirk of my antiquated customs, I should like to sort out my thoughts regarding you and our evolving relationship.

It was with no small measure of dismay that I learned that amorous epistles were no longer exchanged as a part of courtship. I feared perhaps that the method with which I am most comfortable expressing my deep and abiding devotion to you would be confined solely to the spoken; words that, while heartfelt, are ephemeral and too easily gainsaid. It is often a point I expound upon in my--as you say--"rants," that too few promises are kept when the only evidence of them is air and whispers. Perhaps that is too cynical of me, but being a man who has lost incalculable things on the basis of promises and lies and words said (and unsaid), please forgive me this.

You are too important to me for us to not have a record of you, of our love, of the way my heart beats every day for you.

And so, I offer a written account of my feelings. Let it stand in the stead of marriage vows, if it should happen that we never marry. This document shall serve as proof that my love for you is unshakeable and inalienable. I hold it and your love for me as parts of my very being. For I love you, Abbie, more than I ever thought possible. 

If my actions ever fall short of demonstrating this, please take this humble missive as comfort. It shall not age well, I'm afraid, since I will no doubt love you more tomorrow than I do today--and more still the day after that--but if I can record even the smallest fraction of my feelings here, then let it be your proof, Love.

You are the most beautiful, brave, charming, precious woman I have ever had the peradventure to meet, let alone work with. And yet, what set me so firmly on the course of madness in love was not the strength you obviously possess, but the glimpses of vulnerability I saw in you. I want more than anything to be your Knight, your Stalwart, and I swear on all I hold holy that I shall never fail you if I can help it--even if such a vow leads to my death. It is my turn to protect and save you, my darling, and it is a duty I will accept with due alacrity.

I must inform you, however, that from now on, it shall  _always_ be my turn and I will brook no argument on that. Even as your brow furrows reading those words. And even if your lips set in that enchanting manner they do when you are cross with me.

I will not lose you ever again, Abbie. I cannot. And nothing, not deity nor capricious fate, can challenge me on this point.

 

Forever your Partner, Friend, and Companion,

_Ichabod Crane_

 

P.S. Your glorious arse is also worthy of record.


	22. Sui Generis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Sui generis** \- Of his, her, its, or their own kind; unique._

Ichabod Crane has taken, of late, to ponder his own existence in the scheme of things.

He finds it curious that in the whirlwind of apocalypses, headless horsemen, faithless wives, demons from perdition, and resentful sons, he'd not thought to do so before now. Nevertheless, as he surreptitiously glances at his Lieutenant--busy mixing the ingredients for a "cornbread that you would die again for"--he is engaging in the practice.

It has only been three days since she's returned to him, but he can yet remember the crushing despair of her absence, how utterly superfluous he'd felt with her gone. So his heart flutters as she bites her bottom lip unthinkingly and pours the batter into a baking pan, and he can't help but know deep in his tired soul, that _she_ is the reason for him.

_She_ is why he was brought here to this time, and _she_ is the reason he has ignored the niggling sense that he is where he doesn't belong. For he  _is_ where he belongs; with her. Always with her.

She turns to him, a faint smile on her lovely face, her oversized top sliding slowly and tantalizingly down one shoulder. He hopes she missed his swift intake of breath and coughs softly to hide it.

"So what do you wanna do while this bakes?" she asks, and he ruthlessly suppresses the real answer to that question.

"Would it afford us the time for a chess game, perhaps?"

Her smile widens. His chest tightens.

"Sure thing. I missed beating your ass," she teases.

He offers to assemble the board so that he'll have an excuse to leave the room and finally be able to wrangle his emotions under control. A Sisyphean effort, to be sure, but one he attempts nonetheless.

He gathers the board and pieces, thinking of how it felt to touch her the day of her return. Wanting so badly to run his fingers over her face, her hair, to clutch her tightly to him until he was sure she was here, his Abbie, that this was not another cruel dream gone with the light of day. Instead, he'd been frightened by the emotion and instead had taken her hands, conceding one small thing to his overwhelming need.

He'd not touched her since. 

Having her back--it felt fragile, and it terrified him to think that the happiness begging to burst from him would scare her away. For good, this time.

But he indulges in these small wondrous moments, when she seems almost untouched by her ordeal, when he can pretend it is still those early days, when he'd been awed by her mere existence.

He snorts softly as she makes a move.

Who is he kidding? He is  _still_ awed by her existence. Why else would he focus on the way her small hand holds her knight, remembering the softness of it against his face the few times she'd petted his beard and he'd fought not to arch into her touch like a purring cat?

He notes that her fingernails are painted a darkly mysterious gray. This is new. He knows she often paints her toenails, an endearingly feminine secret he'd discovered on one of their many Netflix nights, but she refrained from painting her nails because of the nature of her work. 

His brow furrows. 

"By the time you figure out your move, the cornbread will be done, Crane," she prods gently, mistaking his frown.

"Forgive me, Lieutenant," he murmurs, positioning one of his pawns as a sacrifice.

She scoffs and gives him a "you're kidding, right?" look before taking the bait.

He knows she's tried to hide the worst of her trauma from him--such a quintessential  _Abbie_ thing to do--but he knows it's there. There is a distance she maintains between herself and him--something that would hurt so much more if he didn't know it was a distance applied to everyone else, too. He can only surmise that the painting of her nails signals that she doesn't plan to return to the FBI as of yet.

He's ashamed by how the knowledge lights a tiny flame of happiness in his heart.

The game is almost done when the oven dings.

Abbie gets up, pointing a warning finger at him.

"Don't you dare touch anything on that board, Ichabod Crane."

He smiles.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Lieutenant. Though you and I both know it is not I who cheats whilst the other isn't looking."

Her eyes twinkle as she feigns an offended gasp.

"Imma get you for that one."

She bends to remove the baking dish, setting it on a rack on the counter to cool.

Their game is delayed as she sets to making the honey butter for the cornbread. He joins her, wanting to be close to her as she pours the cream into the blender. He smiles softly as he hands her the honey, remembering when she'd first made butter from scratch--A notion she'd taken from one of his rants about how processed butter ruined the delicacy of the croissants she often brought to the Archives for him.

It was before the Catacombs. Before his absence, before Katrina and Jeremy. 

Before the many slings and arrows weakened their extraordinary bond almost to the point of breaking.

He thinks maybe it was the glow of success on her face as she'd presented him with the small dish of butter that cemented his feelings for her. For he loved her so much at that moment, his once-in-two-lifetimes Lieutenant. 

When the butter is ready, Abbie eagerly cuts him a piece of the blueberry cornbread, slathering it with the honey butter and offering it to him with that same glow brightening her face.

His heart swells and he takes a bite, moaning deeply when he discovers she's right about the cornbread being worthy of sacrifice.

Her smile is bright and wide, and only brightens more even when he wins their chess match and devours half of the entire baking pan.

"Admit it," she says, teasingly, "you missed this."

He reaches out and finally-- _finally--_ grazes her cheek.

"Desperately," he whispers, holding her king in his other hand.

 

 


	23. Parallax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Parallax** \- the apparent displacement of an observed object due to a change in the position of the observer._

The world has been a little muted for Abbie lately.

She knows this, and her first instinct, as always, is to pretend it's not; that everything is exactly as it was and that whatever trauma the rest of Team Witness thinks she's gone through is safely tucked away in one of the many compartments she's labeled DO NOT TOUCH, in bright, bold letters.

It can rest between " _Purgatory_ " and " _Feelings for Crane_."

That's another damn thing, though. " _Feelings_   _for Crane_ " has never really fit perfectly in its shelf and since Katrina--and now, since the Catacombs--it's threatening to spill over and fuck up her entire organizational system. 

She watches as he eagerly flips pages, looking for her symbol. Her crutch. Her _other_ crutch, anyway.

She doesn't know how to handle the fact that he apparently cares about her so much that he doesn't care that she almost let him die because of her own mistakes.

She shakes her head slowly, smiling. 

She asked for help--another miracle--and he gave it, immediately.

He must've noticed her movement, because he looks up, a bemused smile on his lips.

"Lieutenant? Everything all right?"

_Not really._

"Yeah, just... I'm gonna go make us something to eat. Any requests?"

His forehead smooths and his smile becomes gentler.

_Fuck, he's adorable. Argh._

"I'll be satisfied with whatever you deem adequate, Miss Mills."

She stifles a strangled sound and escapes as quickly as she can to the kitchen, mentally pushing " _Feelings for Crane_ " back into its fucking spot.

 

* * *

 

 

She doesn't even know why she doesn't give in, she muses as she tugs on a faded t-shirt over her polka-dotted boyshorts later that night.

_It's not like you don't know how he feels about you,_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Jenny says in her head. 

Abbie sighs, noticing her hands trembling while they gather her hair into a high puff of curls. Yeah, she knows how Crane feels. Probably knew since the beginning. He's never been able to hide much, at least not from her, and even in her brand new muted world, he's full technicolor. Hard to miss. Especially when he looks like he's just bursting to profess his undying love for her at any moment.

Earlier, when she'd set a simple grilled cheese and tomato soup in front of him for lunch it looked like he was about to produce a diamond and get on one knee.

_Fuck's sake._

It's so much harder to keep a distance now, and it frustrates her even as it excites her. 

When she'd come back from the Catacombs, things were supposed to be so much simpler. Being alone for damn near a year has a way of putting things in perspective.

Find Pandora and the Asshole One. Fuck their shit up. Save the world. Maybe have a burger. Sleep. 

Keep Crane a safe distance away. Even when he tested her resolve with big romantic dinners and big hopeful puppy eyes filled with promises she didn't know she could trust.

Now she just feels like she's being an unreasonable coward. Like she's swimming against an invisible current.

She lets out a frustrated sigh and gets into bed, switching off the light and staring at her ceiling.

Things are different now, she knows. Hell,  _she's_ different now. 

A little sadder.

A little angrier.

A little more afraid.

A little more in love.

" _Feelings for Crane_ " has never been in its proper place, she admits. Never, if she's honest. Not even when he was gone for-fucking-ever, having the time of his life looking for some stupid rock to bring him back to her side but oddly not having the goddamn decency to send one of his long-ass texts so she could know he wasn't dead or to show--fuck fuck  _fuck_ \--that he hadn't forgotten her.

_And what does that make me?_ she wonders.

"A goddamn fool," she whispers out loud.

A stupid, cowardly, stubborn goddamn fool.

Not that admitting it makes her feel any better.

She eases out of bed, walking cautiously out of her room and down the stairs. Not knowing where she's going or what she's doing until she's standing uncertainly in the kitchen in her drawers and Crane is at her refrigerator, rooting around for juice or maybe one of the cupcakes she'd made him a couple days ago.

_Well, shit._

She doesn't know she's said it aloud until he turns around with a startled "Abbie!" on his lips.

It's enough to make her lips quirk up in an amused smirk.

"I thought--Forgive me, Lieutenant, I believed you asleep." 

He's making a valiant effort not to let his eyes drop below her neck, but his failure widens her smile. He really is too damn cute for his own good.

"So that's what you do when I'm asleep? Raid my fridge?"

His neck reddens and she tries really hard not to imagine following the flush with her lips. Was she coming down here to tell him? Is that the plan?

"I--I'm... I merely wished..."

And if that _is_ the plan, what exactly is it she's supposed to tell him:  _I love you_?  _Why were you gone so long_?  _Can I lick that frosting off your lips_?  _Why do you love me_?

_Do you make those moany sounds when you kiss_?

"You have frosting on your beard," she points out. 

"Oh." She watches as he shifts focus to cleaning it off and keeps running through a long list of things she could say.

_How come you haven't made a move._

_Why did you choose Katrina over me._

_Why do you look at me as if I break your heart and fix it at the same time._

_Don't you want to touch me._

_Why do you love me._

"Pardon?" His head has snapped up and he's pale now, looking at her with shocked, panicked eyes.

Oh, shit. 

"Lieutenant, did you--what was--"

Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound. That's some shit he would say, right?

So she repeats it.

"Why do you love me, Crane?"

She fucks up 'cause it comes out more plaintive, needier than she intended. And she closes her eyes in embarrassment when his eyes soften and he strides toward her and takes her roughly in his arms, hunching over her as if to protect her.

"Because, Abbie."

"Because?" she whispers tentatively.

"I came alive when you saw me."

He holds her tighter when she starts crying, and she kicks herself because this isn't at all how it happens in romcoms or in the trashy books she never admits she reads. And damned if she doesn't still want to run, to shove that fucking box back in the place it should be and blame all of this on a spell or some shit.

"Lieutenant?"

It's his turn to be tentative.

"Abbie," she corrects.

She can feel his smile even as he obeys.

"Abbie... do you--that is, are your feelings for me..."

This is a shit plan. There has never been a shittier plan.

"I love you, Crane."

He tips her chin until her eyes meet his, and boy, this plan keeps getting shittier because if those aren't hopeful puppy eyes full of promises...

"Ichabod," he says gently.

"Ichabod," she repeats obediently.

"And again, if you please. I have been waiting an eternity."

Shit plan. Next time, she'll make graphs or something.

"I love you, Ichabod."

And when he kisses her, the world distorts again.


	24. Catoptromancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Catoptromancy** \- the art and practice of divining the past, the present, and the future by looking into the surface of a mirror._

The witch knows her end, and its method. She knows that her time grows short even now, as the war for the birth of a new country rages around her and her kind.

She studies her reflection in the pool of water.

"Tell me," she commands it, and the water obliges by showing her images of her deeds and misdeeds. Not enough to allow her to change her inevitable defeat, no. She laughs bitterly at the inexorability of fate.

But, she muses as she weaves a ribbon even tighter around the poppet meant to represent her husband, is it not the mortal way to struggle against destiny? And she is, after all, maddeningly mortal. Which is precisely the problem. She pauses in her working, glancing at the pool once more.

"Who is the most powerful of all?"

A ridiculous question, to be sure, but one whose answer has always soothed her in the past. For the pool always chose to reflect her, fiery hair whipping in the wind, standing tall in a curious structure with a large bell in it.

But now it chooses to show her something--some _one_ \--else.

The girl is lovely, she notes with a curl to her lip. Large brown eyes, well-formed lush lips...smooth brown skin glowing in sunlight. She smiles up at someone, patting their chest playfully.

She doesn't _seem_ powerful, but the waters never lie.

"Who is she?" she asks harshly.

There is no direct answer. Of course not. But the ripples in the pool show her husband and the strangely dressed girl facing a portal of some kind. Holding hands? Hm.

"Well," the witch says matter-of-factly as she tightens the ribbon still further. "That just won't do."

 

* * *

 

“I don’t trust her.”

Abbie rolls her eyes.

“Jenny.”

“I don’t, and I’m not sorry. Every time she shows up it’s almost too late and she gives you vague-ass instructions that don’t even help. She needs to stay her ass wherever the hell she is ‘cause you and Crane can do bad all by yourselves.”

Abbie turns onto the road leading up to the cabin. She can’t say she doesn’t agree with her sister, but she trusts Crane. And Crane trusts his maybe-dead maybe-not dead wife. So it was all moot.

However... she can’t quite forget how Katrina’s warning about Crane’s kidnapping had almost run her off the road. Or how she’d changed her petition to Crane from “save the world” to “save me.” But that isn’t any of her business.

She guesses.

“Jenny, in case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have a lot of allies here. We need all the bodies we can get.”

Jenny sighs in exasperation.

“Well, one: she’s not a body anyway, and two: there’s no real proof she’s an ally either. She’s been in Hellsville _how_ long, now? Who’s to say her and Moloch aren’t playing Parcheesi together right now?”

Abbie purses her lips as she pulls up in front of Corbin’s cabin and turns off the ignition.

 _She’s got a point,_ a voice inside her says.

Yeah, Jenny does have a small point, but who’s gonna volunteer to bring this all up to Mr. I Must Save My Wife At All Costs? Not her black ass. In some weird, possibly PTSD kinda way, Crane is one of the last ties she has to Corbin and she doesn’t wanna jeopardize that just yet, especially when she has a small, niggling little feeling that the reason she wants to agree with Jenny is because she might have a teeny, tiny, microscopic crush on the cranky white guy.

Not that she’ll ever admit it to anyone. Ever. On pain of death.

Besides, the “evidence” against Katrina is pretty circumstantial. She can’t build a case on maybes, what ifs, and could possiblys.

“What if she’s kicking Moloch’s ass Xena-style while you’re here accusing her of sleeping with the enemy?” she asks her sister instead.

“Yeah, okay,” Jenny scoffs. “If _that_ were true, we wouldn’t have to worry about this apocalypse shit and we would probably be down in Nassau having very fruity, very strong drinks while wearing very tiny, very colorful bikinis.”

“God,” Abbie mutters under her breath and exits the car before heading up the steps and into the cabin. “Rise and shi--Oh, you’re up. Of course you’re up.”

Crane is standing at the counter in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hand and another waiting for her.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” he says gallantly as he hands her the cup.

She smiles at him gratefully and takes a tentative sip, testing it for sweetness. Perfect. Gotta love an eidetic memory.

“Oh, I don’t get one?”

Crane blushes as Jenny breezes in the room, heading straight for the coffeemaker.

“Forgive me, Miss Jenny, I did not realize you woul--”

“Relax, Crane, I’m just teasing. It’s okay that you serve your bae--I mean your _partner_ \--before anyone else.”

Abbie closes her eyes in embarrassment as Crane’s brows furrow in mild confusion.

“Bae?”

“Ignore her,” Abbie hastens to reply before Jenny can explain. That gleeful look never boded well. “So what’s up? Any more close encounters of the witch kind?”

“Ah, no,” Crane moves toward the living area and the sisters follow, sitting down on the couch. “I fear Katrina’s hold on our world is weakening.”

“Good,” Jenny mutters under her breath and Abbie surreptitiously steps on her foot to shut her up before Crane can hear.

“I fear it means I am near to losing her completely,” Crane continues. “I do not know what that would mean for our endeavours, Miss Mills, as well as.... Well.” He clears his throat and glances away.

Abbie reaches over and grabs his hand.

“We’ll find her, Crane. And bring her back.”

She ignores Jenny’s glare.

This is what she’s supposed to do, right? Help her partner? So why does she feel like she’s making a big mistake?

 

* * *

 

The witch’s power is waning, yes, but she has also been conserving her energy. Distance makes the working more difficult, and she needs all the strength she has for this one.

There is no pool here, so she relies on the stolen Mirror for her divination. She needs to know where her pawns are before attempting such a feat as she’s planned.

“Show me the Witnesses,” she bids the Mirror, and immediately it shows her Ichabod and...Abigail, she’d learned her name was. They are not together, and indeed, they both slumber. The witch smiles menacingly.

Perfect.

She reaches for a new poppet, a smaller one than her husband’s, with large button eyes and a full cupid’s bow mouth drawn in red.

“Show me her dreams,” she whispers eagerly, and as the Mirror shifts, the witch begins her craft.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Crane pulls at the ribbons on her dress, kissing her neck languidly as she lets her head fall back.

“Mmm, Crane,” Abbie whispers, turning in his embrace and pulling his hair lightly so that she can kiss him properly.

His long fingers trace the seam of the bodice atop her breasts, calling forth a line of goosebumps and making her breath tremble. He watches the effect of his touch on her for a moment before meeting her eyes.

“Exquisite,” is all he says before bending down once more to devour her lips.

He pulls at the ribbons again, and Abbie curses inwardly.

_Why are there so damn many of them?!_

She pulls back from Crane’s kiss so that she can look down and help him undress her. There are dozens of ribbons, all intertwined, all over her bodice and waist.

Well, shit.

She pouts, but Crane grins, graceful fingers tangling in the ribbons again and pulling, his eyes promising sin that flushes her skin and drenches her thighs.

“Hurry,” she whispers urgently, and he tries, pulling harder at several ribbons that instead of loosening, tighten and make it hard for her to breathe.

An inkling of danger trickles through her but Crane kisses her again and she melts against him when he tugs the ribbons again.

She wonders vaguely why they don’t stop and find a knife or scissors or something, but Crane bites her lip cruelly and pulls even harder at the ribbons and now she really _can’t_ breathe.

“Ow! What the fuck, Crane?”

She tries to pull away but she’s bound closer to him, the ribbons crushing her midsection.

Confused, she meets his eyes and is startled to see they’ve changed color, a mossy malevolent green above a cruel slash of a smile.

“Cra--Crane?” she gasps, then cries out as she feels one of her ribs creak dangerously under pressure.

“I can’t--can’t breathe,” she croaks, and the ribbons constrict further even as they multiply, wrapping around her wrists, her ankles, her neck.

_What’s--_

The last thing she feels before meeting the black is the crack of her ribs under the strain.

 

* * *

 

Crane knocks at the door to the bedroom.

“Lieutenant? I fear you’ve overslept. You’ll be late for the briefing with Captain Irv--”

He is interrupted by a heavy thud on the other side of the door and his heart drops to his stomach.

“Lieutenant?” he essays, but hears no answer. He presses his ear to the door and hears no sign of movement, either.

 _Something is wrong_.

He takes a deep breath.

“Miss Mills, I am coming in.”

He carefully opens the door, unwilling to violate Abbie’s modesty if it should happen she is merely dressing for the day and has not heard him.

He walks in a short distance and glances at the bed quickly. He notes that Abbie’s not there and his sense of unease grows.

“Abbie, please answer--”

It’s then he notices a bare foot peeking out from behind the far side of the bed and his hesitation completely disappears. He rushes to the other side of the bed and kneels by Abbie. She is pale and not breathing and his own breath flees.

_No. No no no no._

He frantically feels her skin, opening her mouth to see if there is some kind of obstruction, some kind of pit or seed, but when he finds none, he almost despairs.

It’s only from the corner of his eye that he notes a shimmering around her neck that follows the form of a ribbon. He touches it with one finger and it solidifies and multiplies, revealing dozens of ribbons wrapped all around her torso, and he knows for sure this is the cause of her state. He fumbles urgently in his trousers, finding there a small pocket knife that Jenny had gifted him. He prays it serves as he grabs hold of the ribbons and slices through them, watching worriedly as they fall away.

He can only hope he has not been too late. If only he hadn’t stopped to make the blasted coffee, and if he hadn’t been so hesitant to come in, she could’ve--He stops castigating himself as Abbie takes a sudden gulp of air, eyes opening wide in fright as she tries to ascertain her surroundings.

“Oh, thank god,” he says fiercely, reaching out to hug her, but he frowns when she recoils then winces.

“Lieutenant?”

“What--what happened?”

“I should ask the same. I found you on the floor, unresponsive and near death. Were you attacked? Did someone get into the room?”

Abbie tries to sit up and winces again, holding a hand to her side. His hands itch to assist her, but she draws away from him again. He frowns in confusion.

“Abbie, what is wrong?”

“I think...that you just tried to dream-kill me.”

 

* * *

 

The witch dances in her lair, exhilarated by the success of her plan. Her magic is once again at low reserves, but it matters naught when her adversary lies dead at her own hands. She twirls around candles, mimicking the wanton dance of their flames.

Now all there remains to do is escape this damned prison. For that, she has her sweet, gullible, darling husband.

She sways to the Mirror, a gleeful smile painting her lips.

“Show me my beloved,” she giggles.

The Mirror shifts, and her smile disappears.

For there, with her husband, is the Second Witness Abigail.

“Who is the most powerful of all?” she growls, and the picture does not change.

 

* * *

 

  
“So you’re telling me that we’re gonna still look up ways to save Sabrina the Shady Witch even after you were mysteriously attacked in your sleep by someone or some _thing_ that just happened to have witchy mojo?”

Jenny is looking at her as if she’s lost her mind and honestly, Abbie thinks as she sighs then winces at a twinge of her still-tender ribs, she can’t really say that she hasn’t.

It has been a week and change and they have no idea who attacked her, and she still has trouble taking deep breaths and coughing without holding a pillow to her chest. The attack didn’t feel like Moloch or even generally demon-like, but the only witches she knew of were either dead or trapped in another...dimension? Is Purgatory a dimension?

“Do you think Serilda could be back?” she asks Jenny, reaching gingerly for a book on dream magick to her left.

Jenny stops and stares at Abbie blankly.

“Abbie?” she asks innocently.

“Hm?” Abbie is distracted by a passage on enchantments that cause slumber, but she absently answers her sister.

“You graduated summa cum laude, right?”

“Uh…” Abbie turns a page and marks it when she sees a passage on dreams come to life. “Yeah, and a year early, why?”

“Was it like… a clown college?”

“Ye--wait what?”

Jenny’s weird question draws Abbie’s full attention and she glares at a calm Jenny casually putting a book on other realms back on a shelf.

“That’s the only reason I can think of for you to ask a silly ass question like that when all signs point in a very clear direction.”

Okay, yeah, it’s way more likely that Katrina could influence her dreams than a very dead, very blown up Serilda, but what possible motive could Katrina have to harm her? She’d preserved her husband so that the Witnesses could be together, why would she jeopardize the mission now?

Which is precisely the question she poses to her sister now.

And it earns her an epic eyeroll from Jenny.

“Duh. Jealousy.”

“Jealousy,” Abbie repeats drily. “You think one of Washington’s own spies, a powerful witch who literally set one of God’s own Witnesses on his rightful path would fuck up the war effort because she’s jealous.”

“Whatever. If she’s such hot shit, above the petty emotions of mortals or whatever, how’d she end up stuck in Purgatory in the first place?”

Abbie opens her mouth then closes it immediately. Huh.

“And how else do you explain the weird way Crane acts after he’s had a dream conjugal visit?”

“Jenny, ew.”

_Not thinking about it, not thinking about it, not thinking about it…_

“I bet you $20 that she has some kind of spell on him and is pissed that he’s totally falling for you instead.”

“Who is falling for the Lieutenant instead?” Crane walks into the Archives holding two large bags from the Iron Slipper Diner.

“Perfect timing, Crane,” Jenny greets cheerfully. “We were just talking about yo--”

“Luke!” Abbie interjects. “We were just talking about Luke and that’s over now, let’s eat.”

Abbie misses the scowl Crane wears at the mention of Detective Morales, and instead pulls out a Reuben sandwich half her size. He watches as she eagerly unwraps it, then fights the urge to reach for her when she winces.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?” he asks softly and is briefly transfixed at the dazzling smile she sends his way.

“I’m just fine, Crane,” she says easily and pats his chest reassuringly with her free hand. “Just a little sore.”

He can’t stop himself from leaning slightly into her touch, but he covers his faux pas with a stern “you mustn’t over-exert yourself, Miss Mills.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

“Between you and Jenny hovering like mother hens these past few days, I’ve barely exerted, much less _over_ -exerted.”

“Hey!” an indignant Jenny interjects.

“I beg your pardon, I do not _hover_ ,” Crane protests stiffly.

Abbie regards them both impassively, then turns to climb one of the ladders leading to the higher shelves.

“Abbie, do you think you should be--”

“Miss Mills, I hardly think it is advisable to--”

She turns on the third step and raises an imperious eyebrow.

“Cluck. Cluck,” is all she says before she steps down, grabs her sandwich, then settles down to eat.

 

* * *

 

It has taken more than a month to recover her strength, and the witch is more than eager to resume her workings. She eyes her surroundings in disgust. She tires of this place, and the way it leeches her power.

Surely that is the only reason the Mirror thinks the Witness more powerful than her. In her day, she had been the most powerful witch of the New World, stronger even than her elders. Even Serilda of Abaddon, the closest thing to her equal, could not stand against her.

The Witness did not stand at her height, how could she possibly challenge her?

“Who is the most powerful of all?” she growls, and obediently the Mirror shows her the Witness.

She sits at a table playing chess with the witch’s husband, smiling fondly as he seems to ponder his next move.

They are surrounded by candlelight, and it irritates the witch that the Witness seems to glow from within.

The witch’s husband makes his move, then scoffs good-naturedly when the Witness captures his knight.

 _His eyes light with the look of her_ , the witch notes.

When her power is at its apex, she will make sure to draw him to her again.

In the meantime, the witch resolves as she turns from the Mirror to retrieve the Abigail poppet, she will remove the danger to herself.

 

* * *

 

 

Abbie hums as she colors Elisa Maza’s jacket. She’d bought the Gargoyles Coloring Book herself, after saving up her allowance for two whole weeks.

Jenny laughed at her for saying, but when she grows up Abbie knows she’ll be just like Elisa. She’ll have a cool jacket like her, and she’ll fight evil monsters and make people feel safe.

“Abbie! Come here let me do your hair!”

Abbie reluctantly gets up, groaning quietly. She doesn’t like getting her hair done cause sometimes Mama would pull it and when she complained, Mama would tsk and call her tenderheaded.

“Abbie!”

“Coming, Mama!”

She gathers up her coloring book and crayons and scampers out to the porch where her mother waits with a jar of Vaseline, some combs, and hair ties.

“Come here, baby. Leave all that over by me.”

Abbie feels better when Mama smiles at her gently. It was always better when Mama was in a good mood. She hardly ever pulled when she was in a good mood.

She obediently lays the book and crayons on the small table next to her mother then sits down on the floor between her legs.

“Mama, where’s Jenny?”

Her mother clucks and starts to undo Abbie’s bushy ponytail.

“Oh, don’t you worry about her, sweetness. Jenny’s just fine where she is.”

Abbie lets her eyes drift shut as Mama runs her fingers through her hair, detangling it a bit before picking up a comb. She is quiet as she detangles sections of hair further, and Abbie is so lulled by the sensation that she starts to doze.

It’s not until Mama pulls her hair suddenly that Abbie startles.

“Ow! Mama, that hurt!”

Mama firmly positions Abbie’s head.

“Hush, child, it was just a stubborn knot. Stay still, now.”

Abbie warily lets herself relax once more, but finds herself tensing every time her mother pulls the comb through her hair. It finally annoys her mother, who sighs impatiently.

“If I tell you a story, will you stop pulling away from me?” Mama asks.

Abbie nods eagerly even though Mama’s stories usually scare her and give her nightmares. The good guys almost never win in Mama’s stories. Not like in movies.

“Once upon a time,” Mama begins, absently running the comb down again, “there lived a powerful witch.

“She was young and beautiful, and she always knew she would have a big destiny. She was important, you see, for her duty was to defend the world from threats not readily seen.”

“What was her name, Mama?”

A small yank, and a wince from Abbie.

“It’s not important. Anyway, the young witch was part of a coven of good witches, respected and sought after by very important people who held significant rank in this so-called shadow war against evil. However, by the time the witch ripened into womanhood she was far more powerful than her elders. Indeed, the woman most closely her equal, Serilda of Abaddon, could not dream of overtaking her, and the witch easily trapped her.”

A trickle of unease runs down Abbie’s spine as Mama gets rougher and rougher, her scalp getting more and more tender.

“Mama, it hurts.”

“The witch only grew in power after that, and she had no doubt she was the most powerful in all the land. But, as is the way of things, she wished for more. Never grow complacent with yourself, Abbie, for stagnancy is sure death.”

Abbie whimpers as the comb roughly scrapes her scalp.

“Fortunately, the witch found favor. She fell in love with the one man that could grant her even greater power. Maybe even the chance to change the course of history. But alas, fate is as fixed as it is unkind, and he was not to be hers--not really. His destiny--”

Here Mama yanks Abbie’s hair cruelly and Abbie cries out.

“His _purpose…_ Was to join another such as he, in a place and time far removed from the witch. And so, she would lose him and the power he afforded her to a little upstart arrogant _bitch.”_

Mama scratches her scalp with the comb and this time, Abbie feels a telltale trickle of blood run down from her scalp to her neck.

She is crying fully now, knowing that this is not Mama.

She gets up and quickly turns, gasping when Mama’s eyes are revealed to be a malevolent green. Where has she seen those eyes before?

“Know this, Abigail Mills: he shall be mine again. And after you are dust and bones, the world shall bow to _me._ ”

With that, Not-Mama lunges and jabs the comb into her scalp and Abbie knows no more.

 

* * *

 

 

Crane tiredly gets to his feet, heading for the kitchen. A cup of a concoction Miss Jenny called a “Red Eye” would do him good.

It has been a long night of research, and it looks to be even longer before he can allow himself rest.

He looks over to the Lieutenant snuggled on the couch, a book spread open on her chest, and smiles fondly. He will not wake her until he’s found something of note.

He can’t help but think of how relentless she’s been these past few weeks, working tirelessly to help free Katrina while at the same time investigating her own attack.

He pours himself a cup of the coffee and frowns at the memory of Abbie pale and unbreathing. His chest tightens at the thought of losing her in a way it no longer does at the thought of Katrina languishing in Purgatory.

He scowls and avoids thinking what that should mean.

He is taking a deep draught of coffee when he hears Abbie whimper and then a struggle. He forgets the coffee, dropping the cup in his rush to get to her.

_Not again._

Abbie is convulsing on the couch, and he kneels by her to inspect her, knowing instinctively that this attack is like the former. Something on her person is harming her.

He opens her jacket, remembering the ribbons of before but there is no telltale shimmer this time.

Abbie’s convulsions get more severe and he doesn’t realize he is begging her not to leave him until he chokes on the words.

When the convulsions stop, he gives a strangled cry before he reaches under her head to cradle it to his chest.

“Please, Abbie, no,” he whispers brokenly, his fingers making a mess of her hair as he desperately endeavors to keep her with him.

It is then his fingers feel the ridge of something against her scalp. He stops abruptly, leaning down to examine the ridge, and he sees the same shimmer he saw weeks before when Abbie was almost crushed to death.

It is a comb this time, and his mind whispers _witchcraft_ as he grimly grabs it and pulls, removing it from Abbie’s scalp.

He leans down and softly kisses her forehead as her eyes flutter open. Her confusion is but a momentary thing until she surprises him by grabbing on to him and sobbing.

“It was Mama this time,” she cries over and over, and Crane’s heart breaks for her.

 

* * *

 

 

Crane is sitting by Abbie’s bed solemnly watching her sleep later that night when Jenny touches his shoulder.

“We need to talk,” she tells him softly.

He nods and glances at Abbie’s sleeping form. She breathes peacefully, her brow smooth and untroubled, but he worries nonetheless. He takes one of her small hands, pressing a kiss to her palm then her knuckles before setting it back down and standing to follow Jenny into the hallway.

“I am sorry,” he begins, “I should have been more--”

Jenny raises a hand to forestall him.

“Okay, shut up. There’s no way you could have known. You’re not a damn psychic.”

Crane scowls, not willing to be completely absolved of blame.

“Besides that’s not what I want to talk to you about. I want to talk suspects.”

Jenny hesitates.

“This… this honestly feels like witchcraft, Crane.”

She’s taken aback when he only nods in agreement.

“I’d come to the same conclusion, Miss Jenny. Moreover, the attacks seem to be personal. Tailored specifically for Abbie.”

Jenny sighs in relief.

“Okay, good. So far we’re on the same page. You’re right that it’s personal. But not, like, personal in the way Moloch would do it.”

“Indeed. For instance, I have not been attacked.”

“Right, which means that this witch, _whoever_ they are, has it in for Abbie.”

Jenny puts special emphasis on “whoever,” while looking pointedly at Crane. Crane, however, seems to miss it as he works through the facts of the case.

“We should be searching for a coven, then. Perhaps that of Serilda of Abaddon’s--they’d have a vested interest in harming--”

“What about Katrina,” Jenny says flatly.

Crane stops short, mouth snapping shut.

He takes a second to consider, then shakes his head.

“I don’t--”

“She’s a witch.”

“Yes, but--”

“Able to visit dreams.”

“I agree it does seem suspect, but--”

“Who’s put Abbie in danger before.”

At this, Crane scowls.

“When has Katrina ever--”

“When you were kidnapped by your 'Mason bros, your wife thought the most prudent time to warn Abbie was when she was driving. She almost ran Abbie off the road.”

Crane scoffs derisively.

“What possible motive could Katrina have to harm Abbie? I’m afraid, Miss Jenny, that your suppositions seem to be purely circumstantial. How are we to know that Katrina is able to control when she--”

“Well,” Jenny bit off, “how does she manage to always catch _you_ at times when you’re sleeping or otherwise unengaged?”

Crane makes an annoyed sound but doesn’t answer.

Jenny sighs.

“Okay, look. I get it. She’s your wife, you love her, you don’t wanna think that she could be capable. But this is Abbie.”

She forces him to face her.

“ _Abbie_ , Crane. And this is now the second time something like this has happened without us being able to head it off. What if the next time you’re not there? What if--”

Crane shakes his head violently.

“Don’t,” he grounds out.

“I’m just saying,” she says rationally, “we’ve gotta consider _all_ possibilities.”

She glances back through the door as Abbie sighs and shifts in her sleep.

“I can’t lose her again, Crane,” she says quietly.

He looks through the door, too, and Jenny doesn’t miss the flash that goes through his eyes as he gazes at Abbie.

“I assure you, the sentiment is most ardently shared.”

 

* * *

 

The witch had destroyed everything around her, stopping short of smashing her precious Mirror into a million pieces.

The little tart is harder to kill than she thought. The witch sits down heavily on a cracked pew and eyes the Mirror warily.

She was foolish to assume that a Witness so close to the height of her power--and protected by her rightful partner--would be so easy to kill. Especially while she was out _there_ while the witch was trapped in this pit.

She stands, moving despondently to the Mirror. She doesn’t bother to ask the question, instead opting to run her fingers lightly over its surface. She has come so far. If she could just rejoin her husband and renew her powers, she could set her destiny aright once again.

And yet she knows that it is likely that attempting to do so is precisely what causes her downfall. The Mirror has not shown her such, but the implication hovers over her like a dark cloud. Her options are frustratingly limited.

She knows what she must do. It is all for naught if she remains here. It is time to be free.

“Show me my husband,” she murmurs.

* * *

 

 

 

Abbie rubs her arms, hoping to ward off the chill as she and Jenny follow Crane through the woods. She sighs, wishing she could shake the unease she’s carried since the second attack two months ago. It is a constant thing, hanging on her like a shroud.

“For the record, I think this is a huge mistake,” her sister whispers to her.

“Yeah,” Abbie sighs. “I’m gonna have to give you that one.”

In the months following her terrible dream, she has grown more and more suspicious of Katrina, a sentiment that Jenny approved and encouraged.

 _And it makes sense_ , Abbie thinks. _Way too much sense_.

The fact is, in months of searching, the only witch they’ve been able to find powerful enough to weave the kind of dream magic capable of killing someone had died-- _died_ died--in 1992. The handful of those still alive were either untrained or blissfully unaware of their witchy lineages.

Which means Katrina is literally the only one that could be behind the attacks on her. Which means that bringing her back is ill-advised at best. And yet…

 _And fucking yet_ , she thinks, _here I am, in the middle of this bug-infested, creepy-ass, accursed fucking forest trying to fulfill my promise._

“What are we doing, Abbie? This bitch has tried to kill you twice now. This is dangerously close to making the third time a charm.”

Abbie sighs again.

“I don’t disagree, Jen, I really don’t. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I _have_ thought this through--no, really, I have,” she rushes to say at Jenny’s scoff.

“First, I’m already on guard, so it’ll be harder for her to get at me. Second, if she’s here, I have a way of defending myself.”

“Yeah, unless her dream mojo is stronger in person,” Jenny grumbles.

Abbie grimaces. Yeah, she’s considered that. Doesn’t have a counter for it yet, though.

“Let’s hope it’s not,” she says lamely. “But if it is, let’s also hope she fucks up enough that Crane realizes who she really is.”

“Totally. The best case scenario of an evil jealous witch possibly succeeding at _killing you_ is that Crane files divorce papers,” Jenny drawls.

“Don’t be a dick, Jenny.”

Jenny deflates.

“I’m sorry, Abs. It’s just,” Jenny glances across at Crane, who waits patiently at the center of the clearing where the ritual will take place, “I just fucking hate this.”

“I know.” Abbie takes Jenny’s hand and squeezes it reassuringly. “But look at it this way: she’s failed twice. And I’m tough to kill.”

Jenny offers her a crooked smile.

“Yeah, and I’ve been researching some spells of my own. Turns out we’re descendants of a long line of Obeah women. She tries anything, I’ll curse her ass.”

Abbie smiles.

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

Crane can’t help but feel there is more amiss than meets the eye.

In the days following their successful retrieval of Katrina, he could sense the women in his life engaging in a strange dance of wariness and suspicion, but when he broached the subject with any of them, they disavowed any such dance.

He watches as Abbie and Katrina regard each other when the other is not watching, and sighs.

He’d so hoped they would get along. Perhaps if they had, he would not feel as if his very soul was being pulled in two conflicting directions. Yet even as he mourned that lost possibility, he knew it had been self-delusion.

The cause for the rending of his soul was not that Katrina and Abbie did not get along as he’d hoped, but that his feelings rather insisted on a direction he was hesitant to go.

For the past six years, he’d been absolutely certain that only one woman held his heart. It was only after meeting Abbie that the certainty he’d once had was shaken to its core, and it has not recovered since.

He knows now that what he’d had was a shallow thing, built on pretty lies and dark truths. Being with Abbie showed him this.

And yet, he thinks as his brow furrows over an ancient cartographer’s whimsical geography, the tie to Katrina seems impossible to surmount. Even now that he knows his heart is secretly the Lieutenant’s--perhaps it always was, held in trust, and he’d only _thought_ he’d given it fully to Katrina. It oddly still made the occasional flutter toward her, but Crane knows the effort is halfhearted. Almost...artificial.

Perhaps the women both sensed this and engaged in this odd minuet because of it. And there still remains the fact of Miss Jenny’s suspicions. He cannot fully fault her logic, but she doesn’t know Katrina as he does. Did. _Believed_ he did.

He heaves a sigh of frustration. His wife’s history with deception did make it difficult to trust her, but something urges Crane to do so nevertheless. And Katrina’s perfidy _had_ been in service of the mission they all serve. Or so it seems.

Crane shakes off the fog enveloping his mind and stands, intending to go for coffee for the group.

He always reasoned a little clearer when he was not near his wife.

 

* * *

 

The witch paces the confines of the bedroom. Being in this time has been both enlightening and confounding in turn.

Her husband’s preoccupation with the Witness tart has an effect on her magic even now. Where she expected to be strengthened by her proximity to him, his… _affection_ … for Abigail Mills has made the boost to her powers negligible.

The witch grunts in frustration and faces the Stolen Mirror, which she had convinced the Witnesses held inordinate value to their cause. Its auguries were as powerful as ever, if not more, and the witch no longer asks to be shown the outcome of her schemes for fear of the truth.

But there is one question she cannot refrain from asking.

“Who is the most powerful of all?” she whispers.

And it shows her.

It is galling to see the way her husband touches the Witness in the Mirror’s image. So tender, as if the mere act is too much to bear. And the way the Witness’ eyes shine as they reflect her husband’s feelings.

The witch sneers.

If the Witness were not so wary of her, she would have succeeded with her schemes by now. But every time the Witch offers her food or drink, a small, considering smile crosses the Witness’ face and she oh so politely declines.

A fortnight come and gone and no amount of niceties and courtesies had softened Abigail Mills to her.

And the _sister._ Ugh.

And all the while her power over her husband weakened. Time runs short.

“Tell me, Mirror,” the witch begins, momentarily reining in her fear of the future she knows awaits her, “is there a method that gives me a greater chance of success?”

She watches as her Mirror gives her a suggestion and a warning.

She turns away, eager to follow the suggestion but ignoring the warning.

“True love is as rare as an honest man,” she scolds the Mirror as she gathers her ingredients.

“By the time two days have passed, the little bitch will be gone, and I shall have my due once more.”

 

* * *

 

 _Katrina’s up to something_ , Jenny’s voice whispers in Abbie’s head for the whole two weeks after her retrieval from Purgatory.

Abbie’s gut agrees, and so she tries her best to avoid the witch. But it makes her feel weird because Katrina keeps being so damn _nice_ to her. And she keeps trying to feed Abbie, which weirds Abbie out even further because who cooks five times a day? And what the fuck is a quince?

 _Anyway_ , she sighs and relaxes as she walks in her house and hangs her jacket up. She’s got two days off, from both agenting _and_ the Apocalypse, and her plan is to eat super-unhealthy non-witch food and binge The Get Down.

_“Can’t argue with that plan,” Jenny had smirked when she told her about it. “Want some company?”_

_“Nah. No offense, I love you and all, but I don’t wanna think at all this entire weekend, and you talk too damn much during shows.”_

_Jenny feigned offense._

_“That’s racist, Abs!”_

_“Uh huh. Anyway, don’t you have that thing upstate with Hawley?”_

_Jenny shuddered._

_“You make it sound like a seedy tryst.”_

_Abbie raised an eyebrow._

_“It’s not! It’s just some kind of rare artifact auction. I’d be back before morning if you wanted to hang. Earlier, even, I don’t plan on staying for the whole thing.”_

_Abbie shook her head and patted Jenny’s hand. Jenny turned her hand to catch Abbie’s and squeezed it._

_“I’ll be fine, Jen. Go. Have fun committing larceny and scamming rich old white men.”_

_Jenny still looked worried so Abbie gently bumped her shoulder against Jenny’s arm._

_“I won’t even go near the cabin and--what was that last one you called her?”_

_Jenny grinned brightly._

_“Clifford the Big Red Fail,” she said gleefully and Abbie burst out laughing._

_“Right. That. Besides, I think her and Crane are doing some kind of marital meditation crap so maybe she’ll be too busy to try and kill me.”_

_“Yeah right, no amount of New Agey crap is gonna save_ that _marriage.”_

_Abbie choked._

_“I can’t with you.”_

_“Just sayin’. Anyway, if you insist on excluding your poor little sister from your binging festivities, then I guess I’ll go.”_

_Jenny mock pouted and Abbie laughed again._

_She kissed Jenny’s cheek._

_“I’ll be fine,” she repeated firmly._

 

And she _was_ currently fine, thank you very much. Though as she walks into the kitchen she notes what looks like a cake box with a little folded note on top of it sitting on the counter.

 

 

 

 

> _Hey, Abs,_
> 
> _I thought I’d contribute a little sumthin sumthin to your mini vacay. Hope you like. Stay safe!_
> 
> _Love, J_

 

Abbie chuckles and shakes her head fondly as she examines the box. Shrugging, she opens it and gives a delighted gasp at the contents.

“Oh, _hell_ yeah.”

She sends a small thank you for the freshly baked cinnamon apple pie to Jenny. She eagerly takes it out to the coffee table in front of the TV, pausing only to grab the biggest fork she owns.

She then heads upstairs to quickly change into a tank top and boy shorts. God, she really needs this, she muses as she heads back to the couch.

_Two days with no drama._

Well. Except that of The Get Down, of course. She settles in with her pie, sighing contentedly.

The first bite of the pie melts deliciously on her tongue as the fast-acting poison takes hold, the TV and the protective amulet Jenny has actually left behind--unnoticed in a corner of the kitchen where the witch had flung it--are the silent observers to the fall of the Second Witness Grace Abigail Mills.

 

* * *

 

“Abs?”

Jenny lets herself in the back door early the next morning, balancing the box of donuts and the box of coffee in one hand.

“Hey, Abs, I bring gifts!”

She looks around the kitchen, noting an empty cake box and her note on the counter.

“God, Abbie don’t tell me you got cake without me, you couldn’t even wait _one_ \--”

She trails off as she walks into the living room and sees her sister lying unnaturally still on the couch. A dialog box on the TV asks if Abbie’s still watching.

_No._

“No!” Jenny drops both boxes and runs over to Abbie, frantically shaking her. “Abbie? Abbie, please!”

Tears gather in her eyes then spill as no matter what she does, Abbie stays unconscious. Jenny tries CPR, but despite an extremely faint, slow heartbeat--so faint Jenny doesn’t even feel it until she holds two fingers firmly to the artery for an agonizing two minutes--Abbie remains unresponsive.

“Abbie,” she sobs.

Reluctantly, she gets up and examines the room for clues. The pie on the coffee table has one forkful missing, but she doesn’t find this strange until she realizes the amulet she left Abbie is nowhere around. Not on Abbie, and not near her, either. And Abbie had obviously read the note, she’d put the pie box right next to--

It hits Jenny like lightning.

“That _bitch._ ”

 

* * *

 

The witch is just placing a bowl of freshly made stew in front of her maddeningly distracted husband when the door to the cabin bursts inward and the sister bursts in on a gust of wind, fire in her eyes.

The witch hides her smile and affects a mask of innocence.

“Miss Jenny! What a pleasant sur--” her husband is cut off as the sister chants low and dangerously, stalking closer to the witch all the while.

“Whatever is the matter?” the witch asks guilelessly.

Her husband rises to his feet, making a move to the sister, but just then the sister’s spell is done and the witch’s throat is in her hand.

Jenny chokes the bitch, ignoring Crane as she asks Katrina one question.

“What the _fuck_ did you do to my sister?”

 

* * *

 

Crane is bewildered.

“Miss Jenny,” he begins carefully, “please unhand Katrina and do explain what is wrong with Miss Mills.”

Jenny barely spares a glance at him and tightens her grip on Katrina’s throat. Already he can see the skin around her fingers darkening, and Katrina’s eyes have developed streaks of red around the dark green of her irises.

“Please,” she chokes, “please, Ichabod, she’s gone mad!”

“Whatever you did to her, undo it in the next 5 seconds or I swear to god I will put your whispery ass back in Purgatory myself,” Jenny growls.

Crane grabs Jenny’s arm, trying to dislodge it but she shakes him off.

“Miss Jenny, Katrina has been here with me--”

“I can’t.”

Crane stops in surprise as Katrina confirms that she has, in fact, done something to the lieutenant.

“Where is she?” he asks softly.

Jenny turns stormy eyes to him.

“Car. Outside.”

He wastes no time, heading outside to Jenny’s SUV, dreading the worst. He sharply exhales as he opens the passenger door and he finds that the worst is indeed what awaits him.

“Lieutenant,” he whispers softly, drawing his hand down her cheek.

She is limp on the seat, no sign of breath or movement. Her skin is cold to the touch and he lets loose a strangled sound as he realizes she is dead.

Abbie is dead.

And his wife is responsible.

Suddenly, it seems horribly disrespectful to leave her here in a car in a darkening forest, so he unbuckles her seatbelt and carries her into the cabin. He lays her with impossible gentleness on the couch.

“You’ve killed her.”

It is the first acknowledgement of the other two women in the room since he re-entered.

They are still locked in the same gruesome embrace, although Jenny’s hand has slackened a bit and Katrina is breathing a little easier. He is surprised to note that he is irritated by that.

“You’ve killed her,” he repeats, his eyes still on Abbie. He reaches over to brush a lock of hair off her face.

“More or less,” Katrina responds, then startles, as if surprised she said anything.

Her eyes narrow and glare at Jenny, who now sports a grim yet smug smile.

“Gotcha, bitch,” she taunts.

“A truth spell,” Katrina spits.

“You said you can’t. What _can’t_ you do?” Jenny tightens her hand briefly in warning.

Katrina presses her lips together, clearly unwilling to answer.

“You know,” Jenny says casually, as if she held women by the throat every day, “what I love most about that truth spell I hit you with--I can easily modify it to hurt you when you don’t answer.”

She leans in conspiratorially.

“I’ve been researching. Honestly, I might make it hurt you any-fucking-way. So. Why can’t you reverse the spell?”

Katrina’s eyes flash in anger.

“She is essentially dead,” she responds. “I could no more bring her back than I could return George Washington himself.”

Jenny hauls back and punches Katrina, who falls to the floor spitting blood. Jenny starts chanting again.

“Wait,” Katrina says hoarsely. “Wait!”

Jenny continues chanting, louder now.

“There is...a clause!”

“Miss Jenny.”

Crane’s voice is still quiet and disturbingly devoid of emotion.

Jenny stops chanting, glancing at him. He is still stroking Abbie’s hair, and it breaks her heart a little. She can’t even be mad at him for being blind when he cared-- _cares_ \--so much about her sister.

“Let her speak,” he says in that weird robot voice.

Jenny grimaces, but relents.

“Speak fast, I wanna get to the ass kicking portion of tonight’s program,” she tells Katrina, who slowly gets to her feet.

“I do _not_ know how to return her,” she begins.

“Okey dokey, looks like we’re at the ass kicking portion already!” Jenny starts toward Katrina, who backs away fearfully.

“But! But I do know there is a...a weakness? The Mirror said--”

“What mirror?”

Crane raises dull eyes to her and she answers him.

“The Mirror you and Miss--”

“ _Do not say her name,_ ” he warns.

A gulp.

“The Mirror we brought back from Purgatory. It is magic. It told me of the curse, and of its strength.”

Jenny shifts her stance and Katrina brings her attention back to her.

“It may tell of a way to break it.”

“You know, it’s funny,” Jenny says as she pulls out a knife from a holster underneath her jacket. “I can’t shake the feeling that you’re still holding something back.”

Katrina sighs.

“All I know is the Mirror holds your answer, Huntress. I can not give you more.”

“Fine. But you’re getting an all expense paid trip to the fucking Masonic cell for the foreseeable future and/or until I feel like it.”

She turns to Crane, who’s turned back to his Abbie and is quietly watching her as his hands flex.

“Crane? Crane. Get Cruella’s mirror and meet me there?”

He turns the saddest fucking eyes in her direction and she clears her throat to keep from crying.

“And Abbie?”

“I think I can rig something for her here. I don’t want this trick anywhere near her.”

 

* * *

 

“I am sorry,” Crane says quietly.

After securing Abbie in the cabin with another spell--”kind of like a glass dome made out of magic,” is what Miss Jenny had called it--they’d headed straight for the Masonic cell. Jenny had been a dynamo, securing Katrina with Abbie’s handcuffs, performing all the checks on the locks--both magical and not--of the cell, and finally performing another truth spell in anticipation of his interrogation of Katrina.

She looks at him now, solemn.

“If only I hadn’t dismissed your suspicions out of hand, if I’d taken precautions--”

“Crane,” she stops him softly, coming over to kneel in front of him. She looks him in the eye.

“I forgive you.”

An anguished sound from Crane.

“No, listen… I forgive you. This is no one’s fault but that Manic Panic addict in there. We already know she’s shady, she probably worked you over, too.”

Crane swallows hard, blue eyes swimming with tears.

“I don’t hold any of this against you--I mean...maybe, a bit...I reserve the right to kick your ass at a time of my choosing as my due--”

Crane makes a gurgly sound that he believes is meant to be a laugh.

“But we’re getting her back,” Jenny says simply. “And I need you to get your lanky butt up and get in that room because it is absolutely _not_ my job to be your mammy and I’m charging per minute for this.”

He reaches to give her a hug and she reciprocates, holding him so tightly he can barely breathe.

“Thank you, Miss Jenny,” he sighs, then releases her and gets his lanky butt up to get in that room.

 

* * *

 

Katrina watches warily as her husband paces in front of her. She has become so intimately acquainted with frustration that she recognizes its sister, desperation, in him and she’d consider it a victory but with every passing minute she grows more certain there would be no victory for her here.

Damned Fate.

“My love, for you…” he begins, and she winces at his wintry tone. “Is it real? Was it _ever_ real?”

She licks her lips nervously.

“It was...nudged,” she concedes. “Not manufactured,” she hastens to add as his brows furrow, “but it was made to be more than it was.”

“You bespelled me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

A sigh.

“I desired...more power. _Your_ power. And… I did-- _do_ love you. In my way.”

Her husband’s lip curls in disgust and he turns away to compose himself.

“Is that why you have tried to murder Abbie?”

A rattle of the cuffs as she shrugs.

“She is a threat to me.”

She draws back as he storms toward her, fury writ on his features.

“A threat?!” he whispers dangerously. “She has done nothing against you.”

“It is not what she does, Ichabod, it’s who she is. To the world. To you.”

She can feel him tremble with the desire to harm her and she mourns their love. It is irretrievable now. She needs no mirror to tell her so.

“Her power and yours… They are meant to work together. You are fated. If you were to consum--”

“There would be no room for you,” he finishes for her, and she nods miserably.

“You are despicable,” he whispers coldly, ignoring the tear that runs down her cheek. “How does this mirror work?”

“You need only ask your question. It will answer.”

“Does it require the presence of a witch?”

Katrina lowers her head and shakes it, no longer able to hold her tears in check.

“The pictures come regardless, though a witch may better interpret them,” she whispers.

He is gone before the last syllable leaves her lips, the door slamming behind him.

The witch inspects her prison through watery eyes.

“Who is the most powerful of all?” she asks softly, but there is no Mirror to answer her.

 

* * *

 

 

Abbie looks peaceful lying there in his bed. He hesitates to get nearer, but his need to touch her again drives him to her side.

He takes one of the hands folded over her stomach and presses it to his cheek, turning into her palm and wishing it were warm and alive.

“I have been fighting myself,” he tells her. He expects no acknowledgement and receives none. “Since I arrived in this era, I have been a man with two hearts.”

The Mirror had told Miss Jenny--or rather, _shown_ Miss Jenny--images almost too vague to decipher. She said it gave her an overwhelming impression of affection or intimacy, possibly even love, which is why he is here with the Lieutenant working up the courage to “do the happily ever after thing,” as Miss Jenny had termed it.

“I believe,” he whispers into Abbie’s palm, “that I have loved you from the moment I saw you, Abbie. Even through the haze of confusion and pain, your soul called out to me the instant you entered the room.”

He sighs, closing his eyes against the rush of emotion.

“But how could I invest in such feelings? So sudden, so...overwhelming...when my heart was entrusted to another? It would’ve been unfair to you, dearest Lieutenant, to ask you to accept a cad as consort.”

He presses a kiss to her palm, then lays it back down over her stomach.

“And now I know that it was all a lie, and that you are my destiny and always have been. But, Abbie,” he reaches up to smooth her hair, “if this has taught me anything--if losing you has taught me anything--it is to trust what I feel for you. My love...you are not my destiny.”

He cups her cheek, turning her face to him.

“You are _more_ than destiny. You are more than just another puzzle piece in another prophecy. You are my heart, Abbie. You are my reason. And I love you more than I love this wretched life.”

He sighs.

“And if this doesn’t work--if you are lost to me forever--then know that I will charge into Hades itself to join you.”

And with tears running down his face, he kisses her.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Abbie feels is her heart beginning a frenzied tattoo in her chest. The second is a warm hand gently cupping her face. The last is a pair of warm lips pressed against hers, salty with tears, and she knows at last all is as it should be.

Crane startles when he feels her kiss back and he pulls back, a look of awed wonder in his gorgeous blue eyes.

“Abbie,” he breathes.

She smiles.

“Hey. I love you,too.”

And then she kisses him again.

 

* * *

  


“So at what point do I get to say ‘I told you so’?”

Abbie digs an elbow into Jenny’s side.

“Ow! I’m just saying!”

Abbie laughs and shakes her head.

“You’re being a butt because you missed me. I get it.”

“Shut up, you don’t know my life,” Jenny grumbles.

“You miiiiissed me,” Abbie sings.

“Quit it or I’ll tell Irving.”

Abbie chuckles and reaches over to give her sister a side hug.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

Jenny squeezes back.

“I’d say ‘anytime,’ but literally never fucking do that to me again.”

“Deal.”

Jenny stays quiet for a while before glancing over at Crane puttering around in the kitchen.

“So...what’s this all about? Is he moving in? Are you guys riding into the sunset and getting married?”

Abbie follows Jenny’s gaze and her smile warms and softens.

“Yeah, no, and maybe,” she says, a bit dreamily. “We haven’t quite got that far yet.”

“Oh, boy,” Jenny groans. “Note to self: when you tell Crane to do the happily ever after thing, he will do the happily ever after thing.”

Abbie giggles.

“He sure will.”

“Stop right there, I don’t wanna know more.”

“You sure? He has a really big--”

“No! Can’t hear you!”

Abbie laughs louder and relents.

“Wait, I do want to know one thing,” Jenny says, and Abbie raises an eyebrow.

“Do you love him? Like, for real?”

Abbie bites her lip.

“Yeah, I do. For real.”

“If he ever hurts you, I’m removing his intestines and wearing them as a belt.”

“Jesus, Jenny.”

“A vague disclaimer is nobody’s friend.”

Abbie winces then reaches for the popcorn bowl sitting in front of them on the coffee table.

“Speaking of nobody’s friend, what did you two do with Katrina?”

Jenny sneers at the mention of the witch’s name.

“She’s still at the Masonic cell, on timeout until I can figure out how to strip her of her powers completely.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah.”

“And the, uh, Magic Mirror?”

“Oh, I’m keeping that.”

Abbie glares at her.

“What? I could stand to brush up on this divination shit. And maybe it’ll help me out with the Mega Millions.”

Abbie rolls her eyes.

Jenny grins and winks at her.

“Me rich, you in love, Katrina broke, powerless, and working at the Iron Slipper or something… and we all live happily ever after.”

Abbie looks over at Crane again, who is humming happily as he puts away the last of the clean dishes. He catches her eye and smiles, and she smiles back.

“Yeah,” she tells Jenny, “that sounds real good.”

Jenny hands Abbie her beer then raises her own in a toast.

“To happily ever after!”

“To happily ever after,” Abbie echoes, then drinks.

 


	25. Psychomancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Psychomancy** \- occult communication between souls or with spirits. _

“Good going, Mills,” Abbie mutters.

After getting up and dusting herself off, she’d done the practical thing--the _Abbie_ thing--and spent some time (hours?) exploring her surroundings. Nothing but brown and gray, rocks and caves, with a well to break up the monotony.

A _dry_ well.

“Here’s hoping I don’t get thirsty any time soon,” she sighs.

_Or hungry._

Not for the first time, she wonders if this is hell. Purgatory was scarier, but it’s only here that she feels truly alone. Hadn’t she read somewhere that hell is the absence of god?

She tries to fight down the rise of panic in her chest and instead looks around the cave for something to write with. And maybe she could rig something to tell time? Just until Crane or Jenny came to rescue her.

 _If_ they came to rescue her.

Would they even know to--

“Get a grip, kid.” She startles at the voice, knowing immediately it’s not hers. She searches for the owner of it but finds no one. Though she could swear it sounds just like--

“Now I know I haven’t been gone so long you’ve forgotten me,” the voice drawls in amusement.

“Corbin,” she breathes.

“One and the same.”

Abbie blinks away the sudden tears in her eyes. That wound is still fresher than she wants to admit, and she doesn’t know how much she can trust this place. Purgatory played tricks, too.

“Abbie,” the voice says seriously, “that other in Purgatory--you gotta know that wasn’t me.”

A dry sob from her.

“This is not fair,” she whispers, still not sure whether to trust this, trust _him._

“I know, honey, and I’m sorry. Things didn’t quite work out like I planned. But you gotta believe I would never hurt you.”

“You’re gone,” she accuses the voice.

A rueful sigh.

“You got me there, kiddo. Sorry about that.”

“I miss you.” Abbie’s tone is miserable and small. A scared, lost little girl.

“I miss you, too,” the voice says, the feeling in it almost giving it flesh. She can see Corbin’s face, almost feel his big hand caressing her cheek reassuringly. God, she wishes this were real.

“Is this--how long am I--is this my hell?”

There is a pause, a long pause, from Corbin.

“You always had the hard questions,” he laments. “Truth is, I don’t know how long you’re here for, kid. And I don’t know how to get you out.”

“Great,” Abbie mutters.

“Feels like I gotta say ‘sorry’ a lot now that I’m dead,” Corbin jokes, and Abbie gives a small laugh before she can catch herself.

“Is this hell?” she asks again when Corbin falls silent.

A sigh.

“No, darlin’, it’s not. But neither is it heaven.”

 

* * *

 

The first few nights without her are torment.

Ichabod barely sleeps, instead choosing to throw himself into research with mad intensity, fueled by grief and pain and underneath it all, a rage that struggled to find a focus.

Oh, yes, he is angry.

At himself, at Abbie, at the bloody Hidden One, at Pandora, at Jenny… The list is long, and at times, nonsensical.

But it burned. And it _drove_. And he lets himself be taken by it.

It is only late at night that the rage banks itself, smoldering in embers, as if to allow him some time to sleep.

It is one such night like this that he sits in an armchair in Abbie’s room, nursing a half-empty bottle of rum and staring at her bed.

“Where are you, Lieutenant?” he asks bitterly. “Why do you insist on leaving me?”

The pain threatens to engulf him, and he wishes the rage were there to fight it back. The rage is better.

“I would accept any punishment, Abbie, truly I would,” he continues, “but this...This is unbearable.”

 _Unbearable_.

The word seems to echo in the room, as if to taunt him, and he takes another long pull from the bottle to drown it out.

“Please, Abbie,” he whispers.

“Get ahold of yourself, man,” the voice is harsh, but strangely affectionate, making it difficult for Ichabod to identify at first.

When he does, he stumbles out of the armchair, wary and battle-ready.

“Abraham,” he says.

“In the flesh!” the voice confirms cheerfully, then adds, “so to speak.”

Ichabod searches the corners of the room, expecting to find the Horseman there, welcoming the promised catharsis of a fight, but frowns in confusion when he finds no one in the room with him.

“Where--”

“Ah, sorry to disappoint, old chap. This is not a business call--or at least, not the sort of business you’re thinking of.”

Ichabod closes his eyes wearily, feeling the alcohol swirl through his head, muddling his thoughts.

“I am soused,” he mutters.

“Indeed,” Abraham confirms, “but that is not why I am here.”

“Go away, Abraham.”

“I cannot do that, my friend.” Abraham’s tone is a bit melancholy, and it rankles Ichabod.

“We have not been friends for a long time,” he says coldly.

The voice is wounded when it comes again.

“You and _the Horseman_ have not been friends for a long time, Ichabod, and understandably so. But you have always been my brother.”

Ichabod shakes his head to clear it, and perhaps to avoid responding to Abraham’s sentiment.

“Do you know what’s strange,” Abraham continues in a lighter tone, “even after seeing you with Katrina--no need to tense, old man, I assure I am quite over it--I have never seen you laid so low before. You love this girl.”

Abraham’s conclusion drives Ichabod back to the chair, where he sits heavily.

“I do,” he begrudgingly admits.

“No, Ichabod. You are still qualifying. You do not love her as you did Katrina, or anyone else before her. My god, man, look at the state of you now she’s gone.”

Tears leak out and run down Ichabod’s cheeks.

“She is my entire world, Abraham,” he admits.

“There is danger in that,” Abraham warns.

“Nevertheless, it is the truth.”

“All right, then,” Abraham’s voice regains its cheer. “How to get her back?”

 

* * *

 

Abbie finds the world different when she returns. Crane and Jenny have both lost weight, and everything in her house feels off, as if someone has moved everything an inch to the right or something.

She feels different, too. A little unsure, a lot scared, a lot out of place. As if someone moved _her_ an inch to the right, too. But what surprises her most is the way Crane acts now.

He’s always been a bit wedding vow-y, but now there is a new fire behind his eyes that makes him a little more...dangerous? And she hasn’t quite figured out how to handle that yet.

She sits at her kitchen table nursing a cup of hot chocolate. Crane has been asleep for the last three hours, so she’d taken advantage and snuck down here for a little chocolate comfort.

_Girl, that sounds like porn._

She snorts at what she thinks Jenny would say.

“It does kinda sound like porn,” she admits softly to herself, not wanting to wake Crane and have to do the weird dance they’ve been doing around each other for the past few days.

“Baby girl, you need to put that man out of his misery.”

Abbie glances around.

“...Mama?”

“Honey, you know exactly what he’s asking for and don’t act like you don’t want to give it.”

Abbie sighs. Looks like the whole talking to the dead thing was definitely a thing now.

“I can’t, mama,” she whispers urgently.

“And why not?”

Abbie can practically hear her mother planting her fists on her hips.

“I--” she looks down into her mug. “I don’t know.”

Lori sighs.

“Oh, baby,” she says, and Abbie wishes she’d known this mama for a lot longer than she did.

“I guess...I’m scared,” she admits.

“Of what?”

“Of what happens if I--if we… if I let myself do this and he…”

“Leaves again? Dies?”

Abbie nods miserably.

“Everyone I love goes.”

“My darling baby girl. I’m still here. And Jenny. And Joseph. Hell, even August knocks around here sometimes, I’ve seen him,” Lori chuckles.

Abbie wipes her tears and laughs along with her mother.

“Abbie. The ones you love… the ones who love you...we never really leave you. I know you miss me, baby, I miss you, too… so much. But I’ve never been gone. And I never will be.”

Abbie sniffles.

“Grace Abigail Mills, you need to tell that boy of yours you love him. Or you may never get the chance. And I’m telling you now, honey, that pain is even worse.”

 

* * *

 

Ichabod’s dreams--barring the occasional prophecy--have been the sole domain of Grace Abigail Mills. Even before the death of Katrina, Abbie had made her home in his subconscious and never truly let go.

He has to admit that he doesn’t much mind. Indeed, he has gladly offered her the lay of the land since his first glimpse of those deep, expressive brown eyes, the lush curve of her lips, and the tantalizing slope of her derrière.

But now his dreamscape is reminiscent of the early days, when he’d been visited by…

“Katrina.”

“Yes,” the spirit replies, and he can see her form solidify into Katrina’s familiar flame-red hair and fragile pale skin.

Instantly he is on guard.

“What is--”

“Worry not, my love,” Katrina interrupts. “I did not summon you here to give you grief or warning. Well. Perhaps a small warning,” she adds with a small twist of her lips.

“I am not sorry,” Ichabod tells the spirit. “I did what I did to protect--”

“Her. Yes, I know.”

“I meant to say ‘the world,’” Ichabod contradicts petulantly, but adds, “but I also wanted to protect Abbie.”

“You love her.”

“I do, with my entire being.” His tone is stubborn, and Katrina’s spirit chuckles lightly, surprising him.

“I’ve always known, Ichabod,” she moves elegantly toward him and he struggles not to flinch when she raises her hand to lay against his cheek. “It is for the best.”

“I--what?”

“She loves you, too, Ichabod. And your love will quite literally heal the world.”

“I admit to some confusion, Katrina. You--you do not hold rancor?”

At this, Katrina lowers her eyes.

“I did,” she admits. “When I was alive, it rankled that she should have what I fought so hard to preserve. But… you were never meant for me, Ichabod. And though I loved you and you gave me a great gift, I feel no regret now. You are where you should be.”

Ichabod fidgets as he takes in her words.

“And the warning?”

“Oh, yes,” Katrina smiles, amused. “Make your move, Ichabod, or risk losing her forever.”

 

* * *

 

Abbie doesn’t want to admit she takes the long way home three days straight despite Mama’s advice.

Her shoulders slump for a moment before she takes a deep breath and steps into the house, although bracing herself does nothing to allay her surprise at finding Ichabod Crane standing in front of a candlelit dinner table offering her a rose.

“Crane?” she asks uncertainly.

“Abbie,” he says simply, then steps forward toward her until he’s close--way too close--and all she can smell when she inhales is _him_ and all she can see is earnest eyes darkened with emotion.

“I have something I must confess,” he murmurs, watching as she studies the rose. It’s perfect, of course. And he’s perfect. The whole thing is fucking perfect and she wants to ruin it somehow so she forestalls whatever he’s gonna say by grabbing his face and leading him down to a crushing kiss.

He makes a small sound of surprise that deeply gratifies her, then crushes her to him and kisses her in a way that makes her throw out any misconceptions she had about his colonial sensibilities.

He devours her and all the while his hands roam, squeezing her waist, her ass, running back up to her hair. God, it’s heaven, but she needs to breathe so she breaks away. He allows her to drop her head back, growling in satisfaction as her neck is bared to him.

“I’ve waited...so long...my Abbie,” he says as he dots kisses down her throat and she shivers in pleasure.

“I know. Tell me now,” she tells him, but he’s dropping kisses on her chest, along the neckline of her top. He’s bent almost double, and when he can’t take the strain anymore he kneels in front of her.

He pulls her shirt up and kisses her sternum, murmuring inaudibly and she clutches his head to her, drunk on feeling. She notices the rose has fallen next to them, forgotten but still intact, and she has the irrational need to--

“Thank you,” she says and he looks up at her, finally, eyes dazed and lips pink.

“I love you,” he confesses desperately.

“I love you, too,” she whispers back, just as desperately.

That breaks the last bit of restraint he had and he scoops her up, catching her gasp with another hot kiss before heading up the stairs to her room.

They undress each other in a frenzy, but with opposing aims; he, to kiss every inch of skin he uncovers...her, to touch all she’d wondered and fantasized over. They explore each other with all the abandon of lovers denied, and when he finally enters her the world holds still.

They sigh and look into each other’s eyes, finally joined in all things, partners at last.

“Mine,” he whispers.

“Mine,”  she echoes.

And grace finds them again.

 

* * *

  


Ichabod dreams again, and once again, his dreamscape is dominated by Abbie. His smiling, contented Abbie who welcomes him as she did in the waking world.

He finds he is quite unable to refrain from reiterating how much it is he loves her, and she giggles and kisses and loves him in turn until his smile is so bright it rivals the sun.

“Well done, old chap,” echoes from the trees.

“Be well, my love,” the wind sighs.

And dancing brown eyes entice him into forever.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t like him,” Corbin’s voice says into the quiet room.

Crane’s asleep on her chest, and Abbie’s idly running her fingers through his hair, pleasantly languid. She chuckles softly at Corbin’s declaration, careful not to wake her lover.

“Oh, hush up, August, he’s a good boy,” Lori admonishes.

“I know that, but I still don’t like him,” Corbin says stubbornly.

Abbie glances down at Crane. He’s breathing softly, his arms curled snugly around her waist. He looks so much younger asleep. Unconcerned. He mutters something in his sleep and hugs her tighter and she smiles.

Yeah, this is good.

“Be happy, baby,” her mama says.

And she is. She really is.


	26. Auld Lang Syne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Auld Lang Syne** \- times long past._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat belated offering for the New Year. My apologies if it seems rusty.

Ichabod Crane sets the bottle of rum on the kitchen table before falling heavily into a chair in front of it. At first it was strange to acclimate to the concept of New Year’s Eve being a holiday in which one refrained from work, but since being in the 21st century--and being introduced to many other such delightful traditions by one Grace Abigail Mills--he’d begun to expect respite from toil.

A thwarted expectation, this year. Demons had no concept of holiday, and as such, he’d spent the better part of the evening fighting a low-level demon who sought to possess a vulnerable seven year old boy. Now, arriving home a scant twenty minutes before a new year blusters its way past the departing old one, he finds himself bloodied, bruised, and exhausted.

Too exhausted to muster up the energy to grab the bottle and pour himself a drink.

Too exhausted to watch celebrations on the television.

Too exhausted to be glad of the inexorable passage of time.

And so, he stares at the rum as if he can will it to pour itself down his gullet and erase his melancholy thoughts as it burns its way past the emptiness in his chest, down into the pit of his stomach.

He misses her.

And every damned version of Auld Lang Syne that haunts his steps whenever he passes a store, or a bar, or even the liquor store in which he’d acquired the bottle makes it worse.

He remembers when the Lieutenant had first sung him the modern version of James Watson’s old poem, how he’d found it enchanting coming from her, even as he thought the words fell short of the original. How he’d laughed and joined her, taking advantage of her giddiness to twirl her around the home they shared before falling breathless unto the couch.

He’d loved the song then because he loved her.

He hates the song now because he lost her. Worse, he hates the original poem he’d preferred.

 

_Should Old Acquaintance be forgot,_

_and never thought upon;_

_The flames of Love extinguished,_

_and fully past and gone:_

_Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,_

_that loving Breast of thine;_

_That thou canst never once reflect_

_On old long syne._

Ichabod scoffs bitterly and finally musters the strength to grab the bottle, taking a healthy swig before setting it back down a little too forcefully.

Forgetting her is unthinkable, but remembering her is unbearable.

And her loss is made more palpable among the merriment of everyone else. He can pretend on normal days he is not missing a part of himself, that he is not mortally maimed. But on holidays his smile is just a little more artificial, cracking under the strain of not having her shore up his holiday spirit.

He gulps down another drink as he thinks of her teasing him about mistletoe; her determination in being the one to set the star upon the Christmas tree; the shy way she offered him presents; the sudden kiss she’d bestowed upon him that first New Year.

Oh, how his heart beat in his chest then! Tripping so fast over itself that it spread warmth all throughout his body.

He drinks and gasps painfully as he thinks about her eyes bright with mischief and satisfaction, her small hand reaching up to pat his beard, and the rush of cool air as she turned to hug Jenny and wish her a happy new year.

His resolution had been to confess his feelings for her.

He curses now at his cowardice.

The fireworks start outside and he startles to realize that he’d spent the full twenty minutes feeling sorry for himself and that now it was fully a new year.

He can hear the whoops and cheers of his neighbors outside and he hunkers down further in his chair, wanting to wrap himself in his misery until morning came and he had to face the world once more.

“So… what? No kiss this year?”

He scrambles to his feet, knocking both chair and bottle to the ground in his haste. He casts his eyes frantically about until he sees her.

Ghost? Mirage? Dream?

Abbie smiles at him but stays still, standing right in front of the couch they’d watched countless hours of Netflix and reality shows.

“How--” He stops when he hears how ghastly his voice sounds, all scratchy and desperate, then begins again. “How is this possible?”

She finally moves toward him, so gracefully that it does nothing to dispel his belief that this is some drunken fever dream.

“Let’s just say somebody up there likes me,” she says cheekily, then reaches for his hand. “You got something to say to me, Crane?”

Her voice is soft. Serious.

Big brown eyes search his, and small white teeth worry a plump lower lip. His heart stutters to life when he feels the warmth of her hand in his.

_Real_.

Or near enough as to make no difference.

He thinks of his past resolution, of words never said.

“Crane?”

Then he kisses her. He feels her stiffen in surprise, feels her small hands tremble as they come up to cup his face and run fingers through his beard.

This is a longer kiss than the one before, exploratory and sure, tinged with the desperation of having lost her and fearing losing her again. She moans and pulls him closer when she feels his tongue enter the fray, teasing hers with a carnal game of hide and seek.

_Mischief and satisfaction._

She moans and sighs in his arms, and he becomes aware of a twinge in his back, a remnant of his earlier fight. He beats his frustration down and pulls back to study his Lieutenant. Her eyes are lit from inside with warmth, and she keeps licking her kiss-swollen lips as if to capture every drop of the taste of him from them.

“Damn,” she whispers. “I guess someone down here likes me, too.”

He caresses her cheek and drowns in her.

“Do you know?” he asks her, still hesitant to take that final step. Terrified that this will all disappear when the sun rises.

She smiles encouragingly.

“I know. But you should still say it.”

Ichabod looks down at her upturned face, his Abbie, and resolves to be a fool no longer.

“I love you, Abbie.”

He feels the cares and aches dissolve from him, and he lets her take his hand and lead him up to her room. It is still her room, even as he claimed it for himself, wanting so madly to stay connected to her.

He is glad of it now, for as they enter, he sees both himself and her writ all over the room, intertwining their lives together in the ephemera of everyday life. It doesn’t startle her and she gracefully leads him to the bed, pushing him down on it before joining him.

“I love you, Ichabod Crane,” she finally tells him before pulling him to her.

Gratitude and elation wash over him, and he pulls her right back. He no longer cares if this is illusion or delusion.

She is here, and she loves him, and together, they greet the new year.


End file.
